First of all, let's talk about the prince. A complete nincompoop! Couldn't tell a real lady from a chimney sweep with a wig. He fell for Cinderella's cheap tricks like a moth to a flame. All that "kind and gentle" act, all the hiding behind a broom, all the woe-is-me, poor-me act. Honestly, I should have known better than to trust a girl who could conjure up a ball gown out of a pumpkin and mice.
And my step-mother, oh my dear, over-protective mother. She just wanted the best for me, truly she did. She knew that a prince was the key to a life of luxury, and Cinderella was a threat. It wasn't about jealousy; it was about survival. Honestly, Cinderella had this smug look on her face all the time, as if she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, while we had to scrub floors and cook like slaves.
The ball was a nightmare. My poor mother was beside herself with stress. It was all so stressful; trying to make me look presentable when she had to deal with Cinderella's antics. Why was she always getting away with everything?
They say I lost my shoe at the ball. A lie! I never touched that cursed thing! The prince, bless his naive heart, was so desperate to find Cinderella he probably just snatched it off someone, anything. I mean, what was he looking for, a glass slipper anyway? Ridiculous!
Then came the "happily ever after". The prince found her because she had a shoe that fit her foot. Who knew you could make a life choice based on a shoe size?! Honestly, it all felt so unfair. And that's the real Cinderella story. It's not about a girl finding her happily ever after, it's about me, Drizella, losing mine.