Bird seamstresses, prancing princes: Greg White on the pressure and woes of life on the fast track to happy ever after.
On paper, being a princess looks appealing. Almost fairytale-ish. But turn the page, lift the crown, look closer and you might want to stay in school, sister.
First, you get one dress. ONE fucking yellow dress with a sash. And you have to wear that one dress in every scene until the very end, when you get married. You imagine princesses with one of those closets like a dry cleaner where millions of different outfits go by like the sushi conveyor belt at Harvey Nichols in London. Nope. One dress. And it’s tattered cause it’s made by birds. Birds are shit seamstresses.
You know you’re motherless, right? Your mother died, most likely giving birth to you. And she was lovely. So lovely that your kindly father never remarries, drinks too much and whittles. ABC should launch CSI Disney and get to the bottom of all this queens dying bullshit. Of course this means that one day you too, princess, will be queen and therefore die. So don’t get pregnant—queens never make it out alive.
Not to worry—your prince is gay. Gay gay gay. Just look at him, riding in on his prancing horse, fresh from a spray tan, a teeth whitening, and probably a barn romp involving other princes. When boys are that pretty, they like other boys who look just like them. It’s too bad men’s canoodling can’t produce kids—a gay couple would have the most beautiful babies in the land.
Everybody hates you. Go ahead, dance at the ball—twirl around all night. But know that everyone watching wants you dead. They don’t want to be you—they just want you dead. Dukes and duchesses and court-folk are really just mean. Don’t drink the punch, don’t eat cake, don’t touch anything and never repeat one word three times—you’re constantly a heartbeat away from poof.
Like your castle? Good, cause that’s the only place you get to go. There’s no other world for you. You think you’re going online to book a getaway in Prague? Like you’re getting on a public plane. Attempt this, and you’ll crash through a glass wall, bursting your bubble forever. The world outside it not pretty. It’s not sunshiny, or sparkly, and some troll drove out all the unicorns eons ago.
Why am I so pissed? Because I fell for it too and now I’m single, childless, and live in a cave, hiding out from some witch. FOREVER. My midget posse left me for movie work.
Listen, my pretties: If the shoe fits, work it as long as you can. But remember that a younger, blonder shoe is waiting in the wings to de-throne you. If it’s too good to be true, it is.
Image credit: Sam Howzit/Flickr