I am fully starting to hate it here. Everybody at school was all, 'Oh you are so lucky, you get to spend Christmas in a castle being waited on hand and foot. . .'

Well, believe me, there is nothing so great about living in a castle. First of all, everything in it is really old. And yeah, it's not

like it was built in 500AD or whenever it was that my ancestress, Rosagunde, first became princess or whatever. But it was

still built in, like, the 1600s and let me tell you what they didn't have in the 1600s:

1. Cable TV


2. DSL


3. Toilets

Which is not to say there isn't a satellite dish, but hello, this is my dad's place, the only channels he has got programmed

are like CNN, CNN Financial News, and the golf channel.

Where is MTV 2,1 ask you? Where is the Lifetime Movie Channel for Women?

Not that it matters because I am spending all my time being run off my feet. It isn't as if I ever even get a free moment to

pick up a remote and go, 'Ho hum, I wonder if there's a Tracy Gold movie on'.

No. I mean, even now I am supposed to be taking notes on Grandmere's lecture about the importance of sticking to the prepared script during televised public addresses. Like I didn't get it the first time she said it, or the nine-hundredth time, or however many times it has been since Christmas Eve, when I supposedly ruined everything with my treatise on plastic

six-pack holders.

But let's say I even did get a moment to myself, and I wanted to, you know, send an email to one of my friends, or perhaps even my BOYFRIEND. Well, not so simple, because guess what, castles built in the 1600s simply aren't wired for the World Wide Web. And yeah, the Palais de Genovia audio-visual squad is trying, but you still have, like, three feet of sandstone, or whatever the palace is made out of, to bore through before you can even start installing any cable. It is like trying to wire the Alamo.

Oh, yeah, and the toilets? Let me just tell you that back in the 1600s, they didn't know so much about sewerage. So now, four hundred years later, if you put one square too much toilet paper in the bowl and try to flush, you create a mini indoor tsunami.

Plus, the only person living here in the castle who is remotely close to my age is my cousin, Prince Rene, who spends

inordinate amounts of time gazing at his own reflection in the back of his ceremonial sword. And technically he isn't even

really my cousin anyway. Some ancestor of his was awarded a principality by the king of Italy way back in like 600AD,

same as great-great-and-so-on Grandma Rosagunde. Except that Rene's principality no longer exists, as it was absorbed

into Italy three hundred years ago.

Rene doesn't seem to mind, though, because everyone still calls him His Highness Prince Rene, and he is extended every privilege of a member of the royal household — even though his palace now belongs to a famous shoe designer, who has turned it into a resort for wealthy Americans to come for the weekend and make their own pasta and drink two-hundred-year-old balsamic vinegar.

Still, just because Rene is four years older than me, and a freshman at some French business school, doesn't mean he has the right to patronize me. I mean, I believe gambling is morally wrong, and the fact that Prince Rene spends so many hours at the roulette wheel instead of utilizing his time in a more productive fashion - such as helping to promote the protection of the

nesting grounds of the giant sea turtles who lay their eggs on Genovian beaches — irks me.

So yes, I did mention this to him. It just seems to me that Prince Rene needs to realize there is more to life than racing around

in his Alfa Romeo, or swimming in the palace pool wearing nothing but one of those little black Speedos (which are very stylish here in Europe). I also asked my dad to please, for the love of all that is holy, stick to swimming trunks, which, thankfully, he has.

And, OK, Rene just laughed at me.

But at least I can rest easy knowing I have done everything I could to show one extremely self-absorbed prince the error

of his profligate ways.

So that's it. That is my life in Genovia. Basically, all I want is to go home. I would not even mind having to start school early

if it meant I could forgo this evening's dinner with the Prince and Princess of Liechtenstein. Who are totally nice people, but hello, it's Tuesday, I could be watching Buffy instead.

With my new boyfriend.

My new boyfriend with whom I have not even been able to have a date yet, because the very day after we finally confessed

our secret passion to one another, we were cruelly torn apart and cast to opposite sides of the earth - I to my castle in Genovia, and he to his grandmother's condo in Boca Raton.

You know, it has been exactly eighteen days since we last spoke to one another. It is entirely possible that Michael has forgotten all about me by now. I know Michael is vastly superior to all the other members of his species - boys, I mean. But everyone knows that boys are like dogs - their short-term memory is completely nil. You tell them your favourite fictional character is Xena, Warrior Princess, and next thing you know, they are going on about how your favourite fictional character

is Xica of Telemundo. Boys just don't know any better, on account of how their brains are too filled up with stuff about modems and Star Trek Voyager and Limp Bizkit and all.

Michael is no exception to this rule. Oh, I know he is co-valedictorian of his class, and got a perfect score on his SATs and was accepted early-decision to one of the most prestigious universities in the country. But, you know, it took him about five million years even to admit he liked me. And that was only after I'd sent him all these anonymous love letters. Which turned

out not to be so anonymous because he fully knew it was me the whole time thanks to all of my friends, including his little

sister, having such exceptionally large mouths.

But, whatever. I am just saying, eighteen days is a long time. How do I know Michael hasn't met some other girl? Some Floridian girl, with long, sun-streaked hair, and a tan, and breasts? Who has access to the Internet and isn't cooped up in

a palace with her crazy grandma, a homeless, Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish, hairless miniature poodle?

'Amelia!' Grandmere just shrieked at me. Are you paying attention?'

Yeah, sure, Grandmere. I'm paying attention. You are only squandering what are supposed to be the best days of my life.

And probably, because of you, right now my boyfriend is strolling down the beach with some girl named Tiffany who can

do long division in her head and knows how to ride a boogie board.

But yes, I am paying attention to your very boring lecture about maintaining regal poise at all times.

'I swear I do not know what is wrong with you,' Grandmere said. 'Your head has been in the clouds ever since we left New York. Even more so than usual.' Then she narrowed her eyes at me - always a very scary thing, because Grandmere has had black kohl tattooed all around her lids so that she can spend her mornings shaving off her eyebrows and drawing on new

ones rather than messing around with mascara and eyeliner. 'You are not thinking about that boy, are you?'

That boy is what Grandmere has started calling Michael, ever since I announced that he was my reason for living. Well,

except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course.

'If you are speaking of Michael Moscovitz,' I said to her, in my most regal voice, 'I most certainly am. He is never far from

my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath.'

Grandmere gave a very rude snort in response to this. 'Puppy love,' she said. 'You'll get over it soon enough.' Um, I beg

your pardon, Grandmere, but I so fully will not. I have loved Michael for approximately eight years. That is more than half

my life. A deep and abiding passion such as this cannot be dismissed as easily as that, nor can it be defined by your

pedestrian grasp of human emotion.

I didn't say any of that out loud, though, on account of how Grandmere has those really long nails that she tends to

'accidentally' stab people with.

Except that even though Michael really is my reason for living and my heart's breath, I don't think I'll be decorating my

Algebra notebook with hearts and flowers and curlicue Mrs. Michael Moscovitzes, the way Lana Weinberger decorated

hers (only with Mrs. Josh Richters, of course). Not only because doing stuff like that is completely lame and because I do

not care to have my identity subjugated by taking my husband's name, but also because as consort to the ruler of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name. Not Thermopolis. Renaldo. Michael Renaldo. That looks kind of nice, now

that I think about it.

Thirteen more days until I see the lights of New York and Michael's dark brown eyes again. Please God, let me live that long.

HRH Michael Renaldo

     M. Renaldo, Prince Consort

          Michael Moscovitz Renaldo of Genovia






Friday, January 8, 2a.m.,

Royal Genovian Bedchamber




This just occurred to me:

When Michael said he loved me that night during the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, he might have meant love in the platonic sense. Not love in the tides of flaming passion sense. You know, like maybe he loves me like a friend.

Only you don't generally stick your tongue in your friend's mouth, do you?

Well, maybe here in Europe you might. But not in America, for God's sake.

Except Josh Richter used tongue that time he kissed me in front of the school, and he was certainly never in love with

me!!!!!

This is very upsetting. Seriously. I realize it is the middle of the night and I should be at least trying to sleep since tomorrow

I have to go cut the ribbon at the new children's wing of the Prince Philippe Memorial Hospital.

But how can I sleep when my boyfriend - the first real boyfriend I have ever had, since my last boyfriend, Kenny, doesn't count, seeing as how I didn't actually like him as more than just a friend — could be in Florida, loving me as a friend, and,

at this very minute, actually falling in love with some girl named Tiffany?

Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I demand that Michael specify when he said he loved me? Why didn't I go,

'Love me how? Like a friend? Or like a life partner?'

I am so retarded.

And even if he managed to find the phone number of the palace somehow (and if anyone could, it would be Michael,

since he once figured out a way to program his computer to autodial the 700 Club's toll-free donation hotline every two seconds, thus costing Pat Robertson a quarter of a million dollars in a single weekend and causing him to yank the toll-free number off the air, which, in the world of computer hacking, is practically like winning a Nobel Prize) I am sure the palace operator wouldn't even put the call through. Apparently, I get something like seven hundred calls a day, none of which are

from people I actually know. No, they're all from creepy paedophiles who would like to receive an autographed photo of

me, or from girls who want to know what it was like when I met Prince William (he is a very cute guy and everything, but

my heart fully belongs to another). I am never going to be able to sleep now. I mean, how can I, knowing that the man I

love could conceivably think of me only as a friend he likes to French kiss?

There is just one thing I can do: I have to call the only person I know who might be able to help me. And it is OK to call

her because:

1. it is only six o'clock where she is, and

2. she got her own mobile phone for Christmas, so even though right now she is skiing in Aspen, I can still reach her,

    even if she is on a ski lift or whatever.

Thank God I have my own phone in my room. Even if I do have to dial nine to get a line outside of the palace.







Friday, January 8, 3 a.m

Royal Genovian Bedchamber




Tina answered on the very first ring! She totally wasn't on a ski lift. She sprained her ankle on a slope yesterday. Oh,

thank you, God, for causing Tina to sprain her ankle, so that she could be there for me in my hour of need.

And it is OK because she says it only hurts when she moves.