I have ideas, and I want to make them come to life. But the greatest idea of all is the construction of my ideas’ inventor. The things you’ll see from the front row are my ideas, but I did not create these aesthetics. The folds of the fabric and the colors that will stimulate your mind are products of my imagination, but my name is not the one on the tag. Or at least not the name you know me by. All the fame and all the fortune may be mine to swim in, but I am giving it to someone else: my closest companion, my ultimate partner, my most compatible creator.
Somewhere in my dreams to become a massive designer, I met someone named Mylo E. Styles, who was so chock full of brutality that her attitude seemed almost vile. She was so untouchable that I swore at first she did not exist. She was so uncontaminated by fear that she used the most inappropriate synonym of every word and only spoke when she was sure she could offend someone. She had rage written all over her face, and she practically forced everyone in this fancy-pants convention to worship her by shoving aggression down their throats with the force of a thousand atrocious blows to the gut. She had so much fire, such hot temper that it was impossible not to notice her, and her essence was more desirable than a sip of the PBR she’d poured into a slender wine glass. She was everything that a designer in this business was supposed to be. She was cut-throat, determined, vicious, smart, and most importantly, conceited; leaking from her pores with snobbery, and she never let a single person prove her wrong. She looked and acted as if she didn’t have the time or energy to be wrong, or to deal with anyone who thought she was. Because of this, Mylo could come and go completely as she pleased, staying just long enough to manufacture another revolutionary idea, and leaving when the crowd of elite wannabes started to annoy her.
Her fame had brought her to such extreme levels that the only thing bigger than her fortune was her ego, and I tried to contain my envy for her, but all I could think of doing was hanging on her legs and drooling on her platform shoes and begging her to accept me as a human being. Controlling my impulses, I somehow managed to keep my cool around this Goddess of a persona, and when she shook my hand and whispered something cocky and outrageously intelligent in my ear, I knew I had landed the connection of a lifetime.
When I awoke the next morning from my dream, I noticed I was sleeping in a million dollar log cabin on the waterfront with my lover next to me, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the air, and two empty 40s on the rocky beach I could see outside my window. I had been situated here on someone else’s fortune, but the maker of these millions was nowhere to be found, and the keys to this life were coincidentally attached to my own chain. Only then did I remember what it was Mylo had said to me in the privileged privacy of our previous night’s conference. “Nowhere in the rules does it say that who you need to be and who you’re happy being have to hold the same identity,” she said. “If there exists a you that is afraid, simply create a you that isn’t.”