Prince Harry and Meghan Markle Bring My Fantasies to Life
And now, I live
It’s been a long day into the night. Not because Donald Trump won the presidency.
I accepted that reality months ago. The fact that a wealthy, White, male would exert his privilege and authority all in the name of securing a legacy — isn’t far-fetched or impossible.
So, here we are.
And here I am — basking in the photos of Prince Harry and his certified girlfriend Meghan Markle.
She’s an actress in a show that I’ve never watched. She’s gorgeous. Breathtakingly so — and she’s biracial.
It all sounds pretty standard. No ordinary girl would attract the palette of a Prince.
The only catch is that she’s over the age of thirty. Yes, Meghan Markle is thirty-five and that realization both stunned and fascinated me.
She’s three years older than her boyfriend and she’s dangerously close to the danger line of designated infertility.
I know I sound like an asshole but these facts overwhelmed my faculties when I read the statement Kensington Palace released on behalf of a royal protecting his gem.
Seems that Ms. Markle has been the victim of cyber warfare that has rendered her and her loved ones open to the missiles of insults that never have a hard time finding their target.
Prince Harry isn’t going to take it anymore.
He is determined to spare the one he loves from the potentially dangerous ritual that the one he loves suffered almost two decades ago.
His mother, Princess Diana was killed in her prime in the late summer of 1997. She was ending an extended holiday excursion with her beau Dodo Fayed. It had been a magical time. I was there, through the yacht photos and the brilliantly blue sky that beamed with generous displays of what we currently view as Instagram shots.
After she was killed in the Paris tunnel with Fayed and the driver who tried in vain to evade the stormy paparazzi — all kinds of shit came to the surface.
It was a conspiracy performed by Her Majesty’s Secret Service who were given the order to murder the mother of the future King to prevent her from being impregnated by a Muslim.
Crazy talk. But, a lot of begotten loyals bought the theory because how could their beloved princess die so senselessly?
Fast forward to present — and her son is her gorgeous image.
Kind-hearted, generous and willing to date a woman who doesn’t fit the role that she may be asked to play — and yet he is stubbornly romantic and refreshingly dashing in his pursuits.
How amazing that she’s not a twenty-three year old bombshell with boobs to match Khloe Kardashian and the blandness of Taylor Swift clones.
She’s accomplished, evidently private and worth the British empire’s stamp of approval and modern day telegram — to a world that is too ugly to color clean or decent — but enough to lubricate my fantasies and give my life.
For now I live. Forget reality and let me believe in the Prince and the woman who defies the generic seasons that keep me stuck longer than I desire.
You have Trump and I have the Prince.
Long live the kingdom of refurbished fairytales — come true.