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From the desk of
Her Royal Highness
Princess Amelia Mignonette
Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo
Dear Dr. Carl Jung,
Hi. I know you’re still dead and all, but I was just wondering—when you were inventing the whole self-actualization thing, did you take into account the way movies mess people up? Because it is very difficult to transcend the ego when you are constantly thinking about things like oil tankers blowing up on the highway.
And what about teenagers? We have special concerns and insecurities that adults simply don’t seem to possess. I mean, I have never seen a single adult worrying about a valedictorian possibly taking out a death warrant on her.
And what about boyfriends? There isn’t a single mention of boyfriends or even romance on branch
es of the Jungian tree of self-actualization. I understand that in order to reap the fruits of life (health, joy, contentment), you must start at the roots (compassion, charity, trust).
But can you really trust your boyfriend when, for instance, he is planning on having a party to which he is inviting college girls, who often smoke and seem to refer routinely to Nietzsche?
I’m not trying to criticize you or anything. I just really want to know. I mean, did you ever see Coma? It was really freaking scary. And I imagine that if you ever saw it, you might revise some of your requirements for transcending the ego. Like, for instance, the whole trust thing. I mean, I know it’s good to trust your doctor—up to a point.
But do you ever REALLY know that he’s not purposefully going to put you in a coma in order to harvest your organs and sell them to some really rich dude in Bolivia?
No. You don’t. So see? There’s a flaw in your whole theory.
So. What am I supposed to do now?
Still your friend,
Mia Thermopolis
Friday, March 5, the limo on the way to school
If Lilly comments one more time on how her interpretation of Rosagunde is going to make Julia Roberts’s portrayal of Erin Brockovich look like community theater, my head is going to spin off, shoot through the sunroof, and land in the East River.
Friday, March 5, Homeroom
They just announced over the intercom that the cast list for Braid! will go up outside the administrative offices at noon.
Just my luck. You could cut the tension around here with a knife. Not just the nervousness over who is going to get what part, either.
But the Drama Club is hopping mad that someone is putting on a musical to rival theirs. They are claiming they are going to contact the writers of Hair and tell them what Grandmère is doing—you know, because her musical’s name is so close to theirs.
I hope they do.
Although, if Grandmère gets sued and stops the show, I am back to selling candles again to raise the five grand I need.
On the other hand, there is no guarantee a musical version of the story of my ancestress Rosagunde could even raise five thousand dollars in ticket sales in the first place. I mean, who would pay money to go to a show written by my grandma? She once gave a speech at a benefit to raise money for the Genovian version of the ASPCA about how the kindest thing you can do for an animal is immortalize it forever by skinning it and using its pelt as a lovely shrug or throw for a divan.
So you see where I am coming from about this.
Friday, March 5, PE
Lana just asked me if I had her invitations yet. She asked me this as I was stepping into my underwear after my post-volleyball shower, which is about as vulnerable a position a person can be in.
I said I hadn’t had a chance to get them yet, but that I would.
Lana then looked down at my Jimmy Neutron underwear and went, “Whatever, freak,” and walked away before I got a chance to explain to her that I wear Jimmy Neutron underwear because Jimmy reminds me a bit of my boyfriend.
