Most Likely to Be Misunderstood
They used to call her the class clown, but she prefers pierrot. She now sleeps in an ornate, long-forgotten-about teacup. She's fancy like that. If you look hard enough at dawn, you'll find her. Through the trees, moseying across the morning dew on the edge of the city.
If you saw her on the street, you might believe her to be sullen like a mime who’s lost her way. But that’s not entirely the case. It is true she no longer speaks, but she does in fact, know just where she's going. She just has a crooked pace about the way she gets there, a performative nature to her mannerisms. But really, it's nothing more than what the rest of us put on. She just does it with face paint. Her hair is sugar-spun, but she's more sad than sweet. An unrelenting mood of anguish piled to the heavens. She pulls out pink puff clouds from upside her head and passes them out when the mood strikes her. Desperate to brighten up someone's day in exchange for their sorrows. She can take them away. The only problem is, she's cursed to keep them. So she fashions herself a suitcase out of hand gestures and arranges her souvenirs of despair accordingly. Then she brings them back to her cup in hopes that they'll fill her up.