The All Too Relatable Diary Of A Disney Princess

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8 a.m. Woke up to the incessant twittering of a bluebird outside my tower. Ordered Pablo to have it shot and nailed to the tree in the castle garden as an example. These birds need to know the consequences of disturbing my beauty sleep.

Noon. Sat down for princess lunch: two tablespoons of cottage cheese with a side of longing.

12:15 to 1:15 p.m. Wistfully stared out the window.

1:25 p.m. Sent out for royal coach in order to visit Belle. Instructed Pablo to place covers on the seats, as it was unusually warm today–it would be quite unfortunate for the royal ass to get sticky. Pumpkin coaches are so passé, and tofu was in at the time. Somewhat regret the decision, but hindsight is 20/20.

2 p.m. Arrived at the enchanted palace/rehab center. A talking candlestick took me up to see Belle, all the while jabbering about how she really needed to commit to the “program” and to stop carving her emo poetry into the living furniture. I did not really pay attention, as it was a talking candlestick.

2:10 p.m. Finally made it to Belle’s room, stuffed one of the living towels under the door, and broke out the magical collapsible bong. Ended up having a decent conversation with one of the talking paintings, until Belle pointed out that it was the only inanimate piece of decoration in the entire fucking palace.

3 p.m. Updated Belle on the latest gossip. Sleeping Beauty’s still in her sedative-induced coma, and Prince Charming refuses to wake her up–something about him being Ariel’s baby daddy and how he wants to let “the sleeping bitch lie.” Pretty sure Jasmine has herpes, but she continues to tell everyone it’s just a cold sore. Gaston was found guilty of leading a French prostitution ring and has been sentenced to 10 years in the Disney vault. Snow White continues to live with seven hairy, little men, with one confirmed to be Ron Jeremy. Contrary to popular belief, Snow White didn’t earn her nickname from her fair skin, but because of the pure, Colombian blow she sells out of her living room. Dopey handles all of her affairs and has been called the George Jung of Disneyworld. Michael Eisner was last seen on the top of Space Mountain clutching a shotgun and a bottle of Jager.

4 p.m. Gave Belle a goodbye hug and handed her some Vicodin in a hollowed out book. Somewhat Evil Stepmother insists Belle is in rehab for a reason, and that I should stop encouraging her habits. What she doesn’t know is that I was sitting right next to Belle in that jail cell in Tijuana. I just wasn’t the one stupid enough to get roped into the donkey show.

6 p.m. Returned to the palace for the nightly binging and purging. Chatted with the royal family for a bit about our day. Father ordered the breaking of a peasant’s legs because he complained about his taxes. Some nonsense about not being able to feed his family. Somewhat Evil Stepmother finger painted a landscape of our exquisite city, and Little Brother convinced the theater department of his school to put on “My Fair Lady.” At this point, Father put his head in his hands and mumbled something about leaving his kingdom to a queen. Little Brother did not seem to notice and continued to excitedly tell us how he was put in charge of costume design. Feigned some interest and excused myself to go watch “Real World.”

10 p.m. Made myself a nightcap and texted Prince Dashing, who is Prince Charming’s cousin. I met him at the bar last weekend.

10:05 p.m. No Reply.

10:08 p.m. Another nightcap.

10:20 p.m. Tried asking the magic mirror what to do, and it said I was so fucked. Consoled myself by trying on cocktail to black tie attire dresses.

10:45 p.m. Realized I could not fit into my sweet 16 gown and chugged the rest of the brandy. Ended up having a violent argument with the mirror, and then pet my kitten until I convinced myself dying fat and alone wouldn’t be that bad.

Noon. Woke up in a pile of dresses, clutching one of my fur mittens, covered in shattered glass. Quickly called for a maid and resolved to not think of the previous night again.

1:30 p.m. Got a phone call from Cinderella, asking what I was wearing to the ball tonight. So busy wallowing in self-pity, it had completely escaped my mind. Replied that I was thinking along the lines of something slutty, but not completely whorish. We made bets on how little clothing Jasmine would wear. Agreed to pick Cinderella up, because she didn’t want to be seen arriving in a frigging pumpkin.

1:31 p.m. Began to get ready.

10:15 p.m. Done getting ready. Slipped a flask in my purse and booked it to Cinderella’s.

10:45 p.m. Did shots in the carriage and fell when exiting. Cinderella also ate shit, but it was probably because of her glass hooker boots. She tried to explain that they couldn’t be hooker boots for what she paid for them, and I responded that in that case, she looked like a high class prostitute. The first thing we saw as we walked into the ball was Jasmine blowing some waiter in the coat room. Typical.

11 p.m. My inebriated mind could not handle the hall. It was breathtaking. The high ceilings dripped with lit chandeliers, the tables were covered with gold tablecloths that spilled onto the floor, and the air was perfumed with hundreds of bouquets of roses stuffed into vases. I leaned over to stroke an elegant chocolate-brown horsehair recliner, only to realize Pocahontas was slumped across it. Upon further examination, I discovered the words “too much fire water” scrawled across her forehead in Sharpie. I turned to point this out to Cinderella, but all I saw was her saggy ass staggering to the bar. I whispered a silent prayer to the cryogenically frozen head of Walt Disney that I would get to see her fall again and tottered off to the bathroom.

11:03 p.m. As I walked into the bathroom, I realized all the stalls were locked. I had to piss like a race horse. I heard someone yell my name and looked up to see Mulan standing on one of the toilet seats, exhaling the smoke from her blunt into a vent. I told her I’d gladly take a hit if she would kindly get the fuck out of the stall, but then Snow White kicked the door from behind her and said she’d be done in a second, as she snorted the rest of her coke off the toilet tank. Placed my hands together in a sign of thank you and had the best piss of my life.

11:04 p.m. As I walked out of the stall, a jittery Snow White informed me that Prince Dashing was here, and he was looking fine. Doubly glad I just had the best piss of my life. Mulan told me not to be awkward and handed me the blunt. Felt much better.

11:20 p.m. After having consumed all of the dinner rolls at my table–and the table next to me–I decided it was time for another drink. I shuffled over to the bar, where Cinderella was still perched. She was slurring to the bartender about how much her life sucks and exactly how she was going to dispose of her godmother to get rid of her curfew. I asked for a redheaded slut, and then saw the STD-ridden form of Jasmine approach the counter. I told the bartender to change it to a black-haired slut, and to make it a double. Herpzilla basically fell onto the bar, with Prince Dashing in her footsteps. I tried to look away, but the bastard had already seen me. Forced by social etiquette to emit some sort of greeting, I’m pretty sure I told him I liked his shoes. At this point, the Demon Queen of Arabia started to drape herself across his well-groomed shoulders, purring about how good he looked this evening. After detaching himself from her vice-like grip, he asked me if I would care to join him for a smoke.

11:21 p.m. It registered that A) he was talking to me, and B) he wanted to see me alone.

11:21:30 p.m. Nodded.

11:25 p.m. Bathed in moonlight, we walked along the cobblestone path and stopped before the dock to admire the ocean. We sat down and listened to the waves gently lapping onto the shore, and the bitch next to us retching into the water. As he took a long drag of his cigarette and passed it to me, he uttered the very words every princess longs to hear:

“Yo, we should chill more often.”

I breathed a sigh of contentment and realized that life was not about the carriages, the crown jewels, or even watching the ripped pool boy clean the filters…but the little things.

And in the distance, I watched the sad, sad form of Jasmine wobble toward home with none other than Ron Jeremy.

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To quote Dr. Seuss, "Being crazy isn't enough." Writer living in NYC.

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