Watching The Crown turned me into British royalty

It’s with great regret that I inform you of my cutting ties with all you normies I call my good friends and with utmost joy I make this announcement to you today. It has come to my attention that I am no longer worthy of last minute adventures to our friendly bottle shops at the end of happy hour because, and I address this as a formal announcement, I have become a British woman after watching Claire Foy’s tremendous work on The Crown.

My metamorphosis was at first a cursory adventure. Over the two days of binging Peter Morgan’s oeuvre I was hasty in my conclusion that I was ready for my regal debutante. But alas, what I thought was regality only in truth resembled a simple Cockney flower girl before she finds her Higgins.

It started with a small practice of the tongue, speaking out loud to copy Her Majesty’s vernacular. “House,” I practiced, though it’s not like “Hows,” rather like “Hahs.” Secretary no longer was “secretAIRy” but “sectreTREE.” After much practice I was very convincing, the kind man at the corner store agreed with me. Furthermore, it’s with great pleasure that I deduced “on your knees” still an appropriate demand for royal sexual encounters, as shown by the handsome Duke of Edinburgh played by the alluring Matt Smith.

What came next in my transformation was of a more fervent manner. I found myself thinking with a British accent, as if the Queen herself were in my head. And then I had an epiphany that rendered me senseless for a moment or two, as if my mind were rebooting like a Dell, rewiring to become the true woman I was destined to be. The Queen wasn’t just in my head, but I had become her. I acquired a fond urge for tea and watching horse breeding.

I should take this moment to inform you, my former great fellows, that I will be trading in my fluffy white cat for three corgi puppies, no longer will I be wearing my Canadian tuxedoes at winter time, and I will certainly not indulge myself in joining that Roller Derby team I planned to once before. I will also be dismissing my barista boyfriend for a naval officer that I can surely venture to find in the next week or so. Or come to think of it, Matt Smith in naval costume should do just fine as well.

Most importantly, as your now royal associate, I can no longer enjoy the throws of the occasional anxiety attack and therefore I must take the advice of peoples in passing to finally, as they say, “stop being anxious.” No longer can I justify publicizing my sleeping until eleven o’clock and keeping lorazepam in my bedside table considering my esteemed position. I am after all an inspirational subject and anxiety is still a taboo subject which makes everyone cringe.

Put simply, I am heartened by this personal change, and though this may bring up your inferiority complex I do hope you find it in your heart to congratulate me. I have made tremendous strides climbing the social ladder and eradicating that tempestuous mind of a scared plebeian.

Thank you.