I have been called many things in my life. Childish. Naive. Immature. Too hopeful. Too dreamy-eyed. Too ambitious. I may be all of those things- but i do not care. I only want one thing.

In our country, when you turn 18, you are enforced to persue your childhood dream job for one week, then you must get a real job.

Except, i dont want a real job. I dont care about money.

I want power.

I want to be Queen.

Im tired of being seen as a childish girl. A lone child to fend for herself. Vulnerable. Powerless.

I want independence, respect, and control. I dont want a castle, or money, or pretty dresses, or a prince to save me.

I want to be Queen. I want to be legendary. I want people to know my name thousands of years from now. I want people to say: Remember her? The greatest woman to ever live?

Except, i can only pursue this for a week. Which means i must break the system somehow.

Today, i have turned 18, so i am driven to the admissions office. The admission office is where people who have turned 18 fill out forms to pursue their dreams for a week.

I walk inside, seeing it overflowing with people.

A woman at a marble desk with stacks of paper in front of her yells out, “next!” And a young woman in front greets her, grabbing a form. Her black curls bounce as she writes furiously across the sheet.

When she is done, she hands the form to the woman at the desk, and the woman yells, “Next!” Once again.

This continues for about an hour, until i am in front of the line. “Next!” She calls.

I grab the form, excitement flowing through my veins.

The following questions are listed on the paper, “What is your name?”, “Who are your previous guardians?”, “what is the date?”, “What do you desire to persue?”, “Are you married or do you have a multiple house income?”, “Do you have any health conditions? If so, list them below.”

My name is August Grace Whitlock.

I have no previous guardians, i was an orphan.

The date is 1/7/ 3041

My desire is to be Queen.

I am not married, and only have 1 income.

I have no health conditions.

I hand the woman the form, and she does a double take. She pulls her glasses from her head onto her nose, eyeing the paper suspiciously. “Queen?” She asks me. I nod. “That is not a job, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥.”

I scowl. “What is the definition of a job?” She frowns. “To persue work or a task, usually gaining pay.”

“Is being queen not work? Not task? Does being Queen not create income?” I ask innocently.

She is fuming, her face turning purple.

“Fine. I guess being Queen 𝘪𝘴 a job.” She screeches. I smile. “Then that is the job i wish to persue. Thank you. Goodbye.” I say, then turn around and walk out of the office without another glance.

(To be continued…)