The Princess Diaries, Volume VII: Party Princess

Which was stand up on my tiptoes and kiss the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili on the cheek.

Begin Reading
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