My mother is a huge genealogy buff, and has spent many years researching our family line back to the middle ages. A while back, she was able to link us to Charlemagne, king of the Franks and first Holy Roman Emperor (and, completely unrelated, whose Christmas day coronation by Pope Leo my best friend Megan and I reenacted using sock puppets in French III, because we had a weird thing for puppets back then), which was awesome enough in and of itself, although one would think being the descendant of the Holy Roman Emperor might give me at least some intrinsic knowledge of how to behave at a Catholic mass. (Spoiler alert– the descendant of the Holy Roman Emperor panics and flips the fuck out every time she has to attend a mass, and always nearly faints when you get to the hand-shaking part because it’s just too much chaos and no one ever seems available to shake her hand at any given moment.)
But just the other day, Mom came to me with an even bigger revelation– we are also descended from Mary, Queen of Scots, who herself is a relative of Queen Elizabeth I, which means if some sort of mass plague were to wipe out basically everyone in England, I WOULD BE NEXT IN LINE FOR THE THRONE. I mean, I guess technically my mom and aunt and all their cousins would be first? But I’m assuming they would all abdicate to me, as I am the only one willing to have my entire life televised and my outfits scrutinized to tell if I’m pregnant or just fat. (Just fat.)
But don’t worry– when I inevitably ascend the throne, you can rest assured that I will be a kind and benevolent ruler. And it’s not like who I am will really change that much– I’ll still be the same old goofy Kim you’ve always known, except now I’ll expect you to refer to me as HRH Kim, Queen of Awesomeness. And also, you’ll have to walk ten steps behind me at all times, which means I will finally get to realize my dream of riding in the front of all the roller coasters at Cedar Point without waiting in line, because THE LINE FORMS BEHIND ME, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Do me a favor, though, and please don’t behead me, like the people did to Mary back in the day? In exchange, I promise to broker detente with England’s wizarding community, so we can finally get the time turners we’ve all be so desperately wanting. (I’m assuming here that Prince Charles is just a dick to the wizards, and that’s the only reason this hasn’t happened yet.)
I will also change the official royal song from “God Save the Queen” to “Dancing Queen,” because my reign is going to be all about fun. And dancing. And ABBA.