Why, Prince Harry? Why are you naked in a Las Vegas VIP suite? Why?
It’s my fault. Well, partly. I did visit the Us Weekly web site where I saw these photos. Sometimes I can’t help myself. After I’ve checked Twitter and this blog and Pinterest and stared at “Inbox” with no new numbers next to it, I don’t know what to do. It’s not like I can walk away from the computer and actually do something productive. I must waste more precious minutes of my life. So, yes…sometimes I peruse Us Weekly and People to see what my life will be like when I’m finally a celebrity.
And so I did tonight. Just a regular Tuesday night. But it will be this regular Tuesday night that I will remember as the night the dream died. There are no princes left.
I know I don’t know you Prince Harry, but I wanted you to be a Prince. With a capital P. I wanted you to be better than the dominant/submissive guy and RAD, the guy who dumped me because I wouldn’t sleep with him on the 2nd date. I wanted you to be better than all those trucker-hat-wearing fraternity losers that ogled at the wannabe-Kim-Skanktrashian girls down at the beach on Sunday evening. I wanted you to be a Prince.
And I know you’re the spare. So you can be wild and reckless and crazy. But I thought that meant goofing around with Usain Bolt or partying at a London club until 4 AM. Or maybe even hiding your grandmother’s shoes. Why does it have to mean gathering up a bunch of sluts from the hotel bar and playing a game of strip billiards in a hotel room? That’s not wild. That’s just gross. And that’s just like every other guy. Not like a prince.
So I go to sleep tonight with a broken heart. And lost faith. And a dead dream. (Boy, it will be crowded in my bed tonight.) There are no princes left in the world. Only shallow guys who want to be with skanky sluts. And now you’re one of them, Harry.