I Think Harry and Meghan Are Trying To Kill Me

My descent into madness has reached a critical point

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA - OCTOBER 19:  Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex talk to ...
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holidays are hard on everyone



I need help.

Every morning, immediately upon waking, my sleep paralysis demon presents itself as a behemoth biblical monster with raw sausage fingers and 26 different Deal or No Deal girl heads. I snap in and out of fugue states. Right now I’m lucid, but I can barely eat: everything tastes like coronation chicken or toilet banana. I’m losing my grip on my reality, talking to my teddies all day. My good friend Glo (that’s Gloria Steinem) blocked my number, and I’m adding the letter u all willy-nilly to words like “colour” and “humour.” I even tried on a pair of bermuda shorts and thought I looked good. Deluded. Sick.

The reason for my mental decline? The Fabulous Markle twins hopped off the PJ today in New York City, a place I happen to live. They are promoting, in no particular order, the following: their “two volume” Netflix reality show Harry & Meghan, fratricide as a thought experiment, Harry’s January release memoir Spare, something called the “RFK Ripple of Hope” awards (It’s going in the trophy case next to his NAACP image award), and not ever asking anyone where “their people” are from here on out.

The newscycle surrounding the Markle-Mountbatten household is killing me and, like the Queen, my death will be in vain. It’s too much. I don’t even like these people, and there are still two days before their Netflix Special/Global Event comes out (it was nice of them to let Pearl Harbor Day retain Dec. 7 for itself). What new can they tell us at this point? The only interesting thing about any of this is that my brain, usually a neuro-hacked paragon of elasticity and font of British WWI ephemera, is melting like honey at high tea right out of my ears. I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy, who happens to be an imaginary member of the landed gentry named, like, Lady Rupertanya Glenhootbrewth but goes by the nickname “Leg” in intimate company. She watches me while I sleep.

I need rest. I need compassion. I need a magickal inner goddess amulet that will solve all my problems while simultaneously empowering women. I believe that the monarchy shouldn’t exist (they can keep their weird, cold house), the royal family wronged Meghan Markle myriad times, Harry seems vindictive, but he was hurt too, and they both seem fame-hungry. All of this is true, conflicting, and scandalous, even. But now that the Queen is dead, none of this is fun anymore.

I need these wretched people to go to Sandringham and/or the Four Seasons Maui at Wailea for an extended Chrimbo break and allow me to heal. Enough. I’m prioritizing myself. Just as soon as I get my editor 1000 words on Meghan meeting Volodymyr Zelenskyy tonight.

We can try again next year, or whenever the 14-year-old James, Viscount Severn grows up and starts getting rowdy at pubs.