First of all, nice hair. I should get that out of the way. Lustrous. No, really. What kind of conditioner do you use?
Second of all, your horse is lovely. Good legs. Like you.
And when you said I was the most beautiful princess you’d ever seen, I’ll admit it. I was flattered. You told me all about your castle in the clouds, and you said it could be mine if only I climbed onto your steed and rode off into the sunset with you. I was tempted. After all, the bards have been singing about this moment since the day I was born. “Someday, your prince will come,” they sang, and so I waited. And here you are.
Here’s the problem, dude. I am not a princess. I am a queen. And I have my own castle (sans white horse, but then again, those things shit everywhere, I’m told). And while your hair is good, mine is better, and every time I give one of you princes the go-ahead, you grab my tresses and start using them to climb walls. I hate that shit. It’s mother-fucking hair, not a rope ladder. And it’s attached to my head. Just ow.
Also, after some thought, I have decided that your insistence I climb onto your steed and ride away with you is just plain insulting. Leave everything I am, everything I have–my castle, my kingdom–to ride away and become what? The other half of you? I’m not half of anything. I’m a whole thing all by my lonesome. And I dig my kingdom. Yours? I don’t know. You sound kinda anal retentive. I’m afraid you would expect me to pick up your socks, and dude, I don’t do laundry well. I’d wash the whites with the jeans, and your socks would come out blue, and then what? You’d whine, and I’d say, “Well, then wash your damn socks.” You see where I’m going with this?
Aw, don’t look so sad. I’ll give it to you straight. I’d make a shitty princess anyway. I don’t cook (though once, I did try my hand at quiche), and I clean only on special occasions. I’m impulsive too. Like, some Tuesday, I’d wake up and say, “Hey, honey, I’m off to New York,” and you’d say, “But why? And wait. What about my sandwich?” And I’d say, “Make your own damn sandwich.” And you’d think I didn’t love you. And you’d be right. I don’t. I don’t think I love you at all.
What I love is this. I love the sky, and the trees, and the way the wind feels in my hair when I’m running. I love to sneak into dive bars at night and talk to strangers, see what they can tell me about God. I like to sleep in my car sometimes. I do. Wouldn’t that freak you out? Your princess on the other side of the country, sans chastity belt, talking to strangers in bars and sleeping in her car? I like to dance. Sometimes, when I do, my boobs bounce. Think of all those people in the NY dive bars watching my bouncing boobs. Wouldn’t that upset you? Also, I am not partial to clothing. I mean, I don’t wanna get arrested, so I wear it, but most of the time, you will feel compelled to scream things like, “No princess of mine is going out looking like a whore!”
Maybe I am a whore. I don’t know. I don’t care. The thought of being a whore upsets me so much less than the thought of being anyone’s princess.
So, after some thought, here is my answer to your proposal, dear prince: take your lustrous hair, and your good legs, and your promised kingdom, and shove it up your white steed’s ass. I don’t need to be rescued from anything. Find some other girl to ride off with you.
About that sunset, though. After the sun sets, the night falls.
Then what?
Burlesque Press 