Dear Auntie Prudentia,
I think you’re cool and all, and I like how your gloves match your tea cups, but I think auntie Red is cooler.
My dearest Petunia,
Let me begin by saying that choosing favorites is not becoming. Not even a little bit. Imagine, here I am returning from a perfectly wonderful party with this lovely(?) punch, to find this letter waiting for me, basically telling me that I am *not* in fact the favorite aunt… it hurts, Petunia. Good thing I still have some of this punch to ease the pain of your treachery.
… Do you think you were named Petunia for Red? No, you were not. Be realistic, dear. Let me just finish up my punch and tell you exactly why you are wrong, dear, innocent child.
There you go. I’ve said it. Did you think those tiny pieces of “armor” just hold on miraculously by themselves as she chops people to bits? No, Petunia. They do not. She puts double-sided tape on. I know, I’ve seen it.
Warrior Hands Are a Hot Mess
When she visits, she can barely hold on to my lovely china teacups because she cannot feel the tiny handle in her dirty, callused hand. Don’t even get me started on her manicure.
Her Hair is a Horrifying Mess
She’s never met a hair product that she liked. Or understood. Or used. And, you know what? Her hair might be fiery red and legendary, but it’s a rat’s nest. It’s basically self-oiled because she barely ever showers, too. Jungle Girl’s got nothing on Red.
<chugs more punch>
All that fighting? It leads to scars. Loads and loads of scars. They don’t show up, do they? That’s because they’re photoshopped out of pictures. Don’t know what Photoshop is? You will, one day. When you figure out that your eyes don’t line up, you’ll figure out how to use it, too.
She Slept with Your Dad
There. You wanted the truth, you have it. That’s why you’re named (more) after me and not her, because she has no inhibitions. And that’s a problem, dear child. It’s improper. Plus, she’s slept with more kings than I can even count. Who has that kind of energy, anyway?
…Oh dear. I’m sorry sweetheart. It’s the punch talking. It really is. I love you, and your eyes almost line up. And, you know what? <finishes up punch> I shouldn’t say anything mean like that.
Because Red is cool. She really is. And you are too, honey. And, yes, I’m going to say it: so am I. We’re all different. So very different, but so very alike. It’s like… it’s like we’re actual people with thoughts and feelings all our own, not cheaply drawn caricatures to satisfy cheap, predictable plot lines.
<looks sadly at empty glass>
No, we are women, my dear Petunia. And we come in all shapes and sizes and with all different manners of hopes and dreams. We are complicated and forge our own paths, whether our ambitions are to wield a sword or a pen. We are diverse, and different, and mighty in our own ways. Admire who you will, Petunia, and become how you desire. I, for one, will always respect you.
Your Aunt Prudentia
PS I also believe Red is illiterate. She’s at least very absent. Try sending her a letter and see if you even get a reply. Much less one as eloquent as this. Game, set, match, my dear Petunia. Game, set, match.
PPS Red also doesn’t know how to play tennis. I suppose it’s too gentle a sport. Also, the fact that tennis balls don’t explode in gore when she strikes them probably leaves her disinterested in the whole pursuit.
PPPS Gore stains and it truly stinks. Ergo, so does your auntie Red.
Need more advice? See all of Prudentia’s recent columns:
Marie Bilodeau like wine. And she does stuff. Read about it at www.mariebilodeau.com.