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“A Fairy Tale Stalker”
By Kelly Anneken

Riddle me this, readers. Why do the Wikipedia disambiguation pages always fail to adequately disambiguate? When I woke from my drunken stupor this morning to discover 999 missed calls from Isa, I remembered that I was supposed to write an essay about heritage.  So I flushed my phone down the toilet and hopped onto the internet, only to discover 39 separate things that heritage could be. Which one is this issue about? Natural heritage? Cultural heritage? Heritage, the 1990 album by Earth, Wind, and Fire? I was going to call Isa to find out, but, you know. Toilet phone.

 

So, now that I’ve had a half-dozen slutty gin and tonics (that’s a gin and tonic without tonic), let’s talk about royal weddings. There certainly have been a lot of those lately. Prince William and that very skinny lady, Queen Anne’s daughter and that rugby dude, Prince Albert in a can and that South African swimming lady.

 

This pisses me off. Not only have I not been asked to marry a royal person since my recent McWidowhood, I have not even been invited to a single one of these weddings, probably because of my stupid common heritage. How am I supposed to be clearly better than the rest of you peasants if I don’t marry a royal person? If I don’t get invited to royal weddings, how am I supposed to catch the royal bouquet and marry the royal guy who catches the royal garter and fall in love during our cheesy post-throwing-wedding-paraphernalia dance to Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose?”

 

Having been raised on animated Disney documentaries, I know that the key to becoming royalty is being very polite and wearing dresses until some guy sees me and decides to marry me because I’m pretty and have agreed not to question the wisdom of rushing into a political marriage after just a few hours, even though I’m probably still deep in the throes of post-traumatic stress disorder due to the death/abuse of my parent/stepparent. And I’ve been doing all that, but I recently discovered that America is not ruled by a monarchy, to which I was like, um, yeah, tell that to Princesses Malia and Sasha, sil vous plais.  Everybody knows that “president” is just the American English pronunciation of “king.” Duh.

 

I mean, come on! I’d be a stellar addition to any royal family! I’m mentally unstable, I’m not that attractive if you look at me really closely, and I love using taxpayer dollars to fund my lavish lifestyle! I defy anyone to spend a half-hour with me and not conclude that I totally deserve absolute power by reason of divine right and porking some Highness or another.

 

Since I have yet to be invited to a single royal function and my demure ways have failed to snag a horse-riding Prince Charming, I’ve had to fall back on my old standby: stalking. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think there’s anything more romantic than learning everything there is to know about a person and sending them dozens of loquacious love letters until he agrees to meet you in person, You’ve Got Mail-style.

 

I’ve set my sights on the young Kgosi Leruo Molotlegi, ruler of the Royal Bafokeng Nation. He’s a great choice because he’s kind of weird-looking and no one has any idea what the Royal Bafokeng Nation is, so the competition shouldn’t be too fierce He has a degree in architecture and I just bought some Lincoln Logs, so we’ll totally have something to talk about after I climb in his window to surprise him next week. His country’s totem animal is the crocodile, so I’ll definitely be packing my crocodile purse. Royals love seeing their nation’s sacred animal symbol made into a stylish yet functional handbag, right?

 

Of course, when stalking royalty, it’s important to be flexible and have an open mind. I do have a fallback plan: kidnap Thai princess/fashion designer Sirivannavari Nariratana and gay marry her in New York City. Either way, you’re all invited to the wedding! Don’t forget to RSVP! The “p” stands for peasant.

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