I was five when it dawned on me - presumably over a coloring book or a carton of animal crackers - that my lifelong ambition of becoming a princess would probably never be fulfilled.
It was a disheartening revelation; I reacted by
wailing deep, animalistic sobs and flinging crayons at a wall with an
iron resolve. Iron, that is, until my mom intervened with the promise of ice
cream, and I promptly forgot all about my shattered dreams. I blame Disney - it
instilled me with delusions of yellow taffeta ball gowns and unattainably
Anyway, upon realizing my prospects of a royal lineage were decidedly scant, I
harbored many aspirations, all in quick succession of each other: to be a scientist, a film director, a
zookeeper, before lingering permanently on the most improbable one of all
- a writer.
Ever since, I’ve regarded the world with a sense of
possibility. Heck, I can be a royal, scientific, film-directing, zoo-keeping
writer. I can be anything.
All I have to do is kiss a few frogs.