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Dearest Prince,
If you are reading this, you have likely been visited by one of the pigeons that lives with me, and you have likely shot it down and cooked it for dinner, and found this note attached to its leg, hoping it was some message of despair or tragedy or existential malady needing you (and only you) to make it right.
You probably think you’re “a man” for having killed an innocent pigeon, for being able to cook over an open fire, and for having the sense to check said pigeon’s leg for a message from a poor, defenseless princess locked in some distant tower begging for you to rescue her. You probably even think of yourself as handsome or charming, someone who can dance or fight or hunt better than any other prince in the whole wide earth. Well, you’re not! You’re nothing but a snob, a boor, and a mamma’s boy who is ill-bred, ill-mannered, and ill-tempered regarding the majesty of Nature’s creations. You have clouded judgment, a sad lack of all necessary skill in winning a woman, and no sense of decency when it comes to preserving any beauty that surrounds you.
Your father –- a king of some renown, no doubt -– has probably put this foolish notion into your head that princesses, such as myself, need someone to rescue them and that it (in all probability) will be your lot to do so sooner rather than later. Your father has likely also enticed you to believe that because we are women we are weak-minded, pitiable homebodies who have been unrighteously sequestered by some wicked witch, or stepmother, or evil guardian. You likely believe they have cooked up plots as thick as your dense skull to keep us at home and at bay until you can sweep us princesses off our dainty little feet. Well...our feet aren’t so dainty. They’re just like yours with less hair. And they do our walking for us just like your feet. They hurt when we stub our toes, and they love the feel of grass beneath them. I doubt you’ve ever had to wear high heels and see what that does to the back of our feet and legs, and I’ll bet you think we never need to clip our toenails. Hell, you may even think we spend all our time using a loofah scrub or pumice stone, sloughing off dead skin from our heels, applying nail polish or foot lotion just to keep up some stereotyped feminine appearance. Well, you’re wrong. Of course, if you were going to rub oil or lotion on my feet every night for the rest of my life, I might consider that an overdue courtesy.
You’re probably wondering what I look like, how big or small my breasts are, whether my nipples are flat or pointy, how well I kiss, whether I’ll go down on you on our first date, what I might be like in bed, how old (or young) I might be, whether I wear lipstick, whether I like my lovemaking hard and fast or sensual and slow. You probably are wondering if I have long or short hair, and whether I’m a blonde, brunette or redhead. You probably wonder if fairies or priests or animals blessed me at my birth, or whether a wicked witch with malicious intent cursed me with one look of her evil eye. You’re probably also practicing your kissing skills on that dead pigeon you’re eating just in case you get the chance to kiss me or some other princess with that stubbly chin of yours and your overeager tongue.
Well, dickbrain...don’t think about it -- rescuing me, that is. Don’t even dream about it. And if you are thinking about it, go take a cold shower, because I have this feminine intuition thingy that says you will be so obsessed by this notion of rescuing me or some other princess that you won’t let anything get in your way. You’ll probably want to ride your brand new white horse through rain, snow, sleet, hail, thunder, lightning, demon-infested hells, dragon-infested crags, and monster-infested forests just to catch a glimpse of me.
Do I really mean that much to you? I doubt it. Keep in mind we don’t know each other, won’t exchange phone numbers, and certainly won’t lose our virginity together (if indeed it ever really existed for either of us before we met). So, quit obsessing about all that shit and move on with your worthless life, because as far as I am concerned the mere fact you’re reading this letter tells me you have nothing more important to do. Besides, you're probably -- if not even secretly -- hoping to find that I'm asleep, or unconscious, or dead, so you can have your way with me.
Surely you have singing lessons to attend, or prayers to pray, or cows to milk, or plants to grow, or a marathon to run, or a moustache to shave. Or are you the kind of spoiled brat everybody loves to hate? If you’re not, you’ll have to prove yourself to me, because I wouldn’t believe you for a minute. You’re likely a helpless little boy in a man’s body needing a mother to take care of his every whim. And if that’s the case, you’re going to be in for a shock, buddy, because I will not be picking up your dirty underwear -- and neither will any servants in my household!
I and all the other princesses I know can manage everything well enough on our own without any interference from the likes of you, and we don’t need your kind stomping about the grounds outside of our lofty towers, or palaces, or cottages, or wherever the hell we might be staying at the moment that you might just miraculously appear on your magnificently groomed charger.
Oh, we might look the helpless lot, but we’ve been practicing our swordplay and our sewing skills in equal measure, let me assure you. Multi-tasking is a way of life for us, or hasn’t your mother told you yet what she does when you’re not looking?
And if you do show up at my doorstep uninvited, and you manage to whip yourself into such a love-besotted frenzy that you want to sweep me off my feet, I’d be inclined to throw water in your face and slam the door. Of course, that might depend on how cute you are and whether or not you’ve made a total asshole of yourself in a cute sort of way. But that’s my decision to make – not yours.
If we do meet in the future, make sure we meet for the right reasons, that we fall in love for the right reasons, and that we work together as a team. Otherwise, you’ll be sleeping in -- and mucking out -- the stables. Forever!
Sincerely and Respectfully,
Princess