Party Princess (The Princess Diaries 7)

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From the desk of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette

Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

I realize that you will never read this letter, primarily because you are dead.

But I feel compelled to write it anyway, because a few months ago during a particularly trying period in my life, a nurse told me I needed to be more verbal about my feelings.

I know writing a letter to a dead person isn’t exactly being verbal, but my situation is such that there are very few people I can actually talk to about my problems. Mostly because those people are the ones causing my problems.

The truth is, Dr. Jung, I have been striving for fifteen and three-quarters years for self-actualization. You remember self-actualization, right? I mean, you should—you invented it.

The thing is, every time I think I have self-actualization on the horizon, something comes along to mess it all up. Like this whole princess thing. I mean, just when I thought I couldn’t possibly become a bigger freak, POW! It turns out that I’m also a princess.

Which I realize does not seem like an actual problem to many people. But I’d be very interested to see how THEY would react if every single spare moment of THEIR lives was taken up by lessons in being a royal from their tattooed-eyelidded grandmother; getting stalked by the paparazzi; or attending boring state functions with people who have never even heard of The OC, let alone know what’s going on with Seth and Summer’s on-again-off-again romance.

But the princess thing isn’t the only thing that’s put a wedge between me and my quest for self-actualization. Being the sole sane caretaker of my baby brother—who appears to have grave developmental problems because at ten months he still cannot walk without holding on to someone’s (usually my) fingers (while it is true that he has shown markedly advanced verbal skills for his age, knowing two words, “tuck”—truck—and “kee”—kitty—he uses them indiscriminately for all objects, not just trucks and cats)—hasn’t helped much, either.

But that isn’t all. How about the fact I have been elected president of the student council of my school…but am nevertheless still one of the most unpopular people in said school?

Or that I’ve finally figured out that I do have an actual talent (writing—in case you can’t tell from this letter), but also that I won’t be able to pursue a career in my field of choice, because I will be too busy ruling a small European principality? Not that—according to my English teacher, Ms. Martinez, who says I have a problem with the overuse of adjectives in my descriptive essays—I’m ever going to get published, or even get a job as an assistant writer on a situation comedy.

Or that I finally won the love of the man of my dreams, only to have him so busy with his History of Dystopic Science Fiction in Film course, I hardly ever get to see him.

Do you see where I’m coming from with all of this? Every time self-actualization seems to be within my reach, it is cruelly snatched away by fate. Or my grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I’m just saying…well, exactly how much does a human being have to endure before she can consider herself self-actualized?

Because I really don’t think I can take anymore.

Do you have any tips on how I might achieve transcendence before my sixteenth birthday? Because I would really appreciate some.

Thanks.

Your friend,

Mia Thermopolis

P. S.: Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re dead. Sorry. Never mind about the tips thing. I guess I’ll just look some up in the library.

Tuesday, March 2, after school, Gifted and Talented

BIMONTHLY MEETING OF THE AEHS

STUDENT GOVERNMENT OFFICERS

Meeting Called to Order

Attendance—

Present:

Mia Thermopolis, President

Lilly Moscovitz, Vice President

Ling Su Wong, Treasurer

Mrs. Hill, student government advisor

Lars van der Hooten, personal bodyguard of

HRH M. Thermopolis

Absent:

Tina Hakim Baba, Secretary, due to emergency retainer refitting after her little brother flushed her old one down the toilet

(Which, by the way, is why I’m the one writing the minutes. Ling Su can’t, due to having “artist” handwriting, which is very similar to “doctor” handwriting, meaning it is actually indecipherable by the human eye. And Lilly claims she has carpal tunnel syndrome from typing out the short story she sent in to Sixteen magazine’s annual short fiction contest.

Or, I should say, the FIVE short stories she sent into Sixteen magazine’s annual short fiction contest.

I don’t know how she found the time to write FIVE stories. I barely had time to write ONE.