Once Upon a Time I Made-out with a Princess

I hadn’t been to Claridge’s in London since the night my boyfriend locked me in our hotel room, and confusing it for a confessional, spent till sunrise unloading the list of women — who sat heavy on his chest and mind —  crying, begging for a clean slate. Must have been the drugs we’d taken, making him so chatty as he confirmed every suspicion I’d ever had; the red hair I’d found on his pillowcase, the supermodel, girls from New York to LA, and on and on with his endless mind-fuckery and fucking.

A few years had passed and we were long split up, but my feelings on him and Claridge’s were still sour. I had to reclaim the legendary location as my own, so when an actual PRINCESS started giving me the royal eye, it seemed I’d finally be able to wipe my own slate clean and top that dismal tale by writing a new one right over it. Me being me, I’d do just about anything for a good story.