Forget yesterday’s email—I shouldn’t have inserted those emojis with the bloodletting leeches, but after sweeping the floors for my evil step mother and prima donna step sisters, I was exhausted and angry. I took it out on you, although I should know better since I’m smarter (and prettier) than most of the other girls in this bump-on-the-map town. Plus I’m aware that I have insecurity issues.
But back to the Ball. I know it sounds dumb, but I lost a ballet slipper there around 11:45 p.m. I was grappling with some guy who was all over me like a bad case of acne when one of my black kidskins came off. Just like that. I was busy screaming and raking my fingernails across the guy’s face, and I’m pretty sure in the midst of the fracas, the shoe landed near the ladies restroom. Could you look?
Hi, I hope you’re not returning my emails because I told you to ignore the “previous” letter. I didn’t mean yesterday’s digital diatribe; I was talking about the first email when I ranted at you and your parking attendant and accused him of denting my brand new pumpkin-colored Kia. I took a better look at the door and it’s only a small scratch and I’m not real sure how that happened since I do park at the mall so maybe some stupid housewife nailed me.
Anyway, the shoe still hasn’t turned up, and Prince and I are fit to be tied. So is Flo since she says there’s no way she can replace one shoe—she says she can work miracles, but not Biblical Proportion-size miracles. In fact she was so uptight that she disappeared into a drug-induced coma for a whole two days, just when I needed a little deluxe transportation downtown for a navel piercing. I had to hitch a ride with the next-door neighbor. All he wanted was second base, so I obliged, but Prince wouldn’t like it.
And another thing: Prince got a little wasted from all the parental pressure and said if I don’t hear from you soon, I may have to file a sexual assault charge against the Ball’s nonprofit sponsor. They shouldn’t allow perverts to roam the grounds and accost hotties.
I’m sorry if it sounded like I was threatening your job last time, which is why I guess, you still haven’t returned my emails. I’d never do blackmail. The Prince and I are frustrated, but we restrict ourselves to legal means of retribution.
We’re doing our part, too. Prince has been schlepping house-to-house in the barrio looking through closets and crawl spaces for the missing slipper, but he hasn’t turned up a thing. Nada, zip, zero. Actually I wouldn’t put it past my family to have hidden the shoe in some ridiculous place I’d never think to look, like my school gym locker. When I was applying for one of those singing-dancing internships at Disneyland, they thought it would be funny if they hid a copy of my transcript in my geometry book. I got the last laugh, though; I posted selfies they took minus makeup.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but the Prince insists that, according to orthodox family tradition, he must marry a rare beauty with a complete wardrobe. And a missing shoe does not a pair make, if you catch my drift.
I’m requesting a thorough investigation into the missing shoe mishap. It’s been nearly a week and neither have I received the shoe in question or heard from your office. What’s it going to be? Are you really going to ignore me just because I live on the wrong side of the palace and crashed the ball in a designer hand-me-down? I don’t like to be ignored; furthermore, Prince knows where you live and he has access to live bunnies.
Time’s up. If I don’t hear from you today or see the shoe, I’ll be forced to go to the police’s Sex Crimes Unit. Actually this beats marrying Prince because according to my attorney, I can now file a multi-million-dollar suit against Royal Family Inc (and of course the city) for lapsed security. I woke up today with PTSD and an awful headache. My family will back me up on this, for a cool 10 percent of the out-of-court settlement. ❏
Janice is a humor writer who has published stories in Defenestration, Unhinged, The Daily Drunk , Hobo Pancake, and other venues.