College Essays Of Disney Princesses Who Have No Transcripts And Want To Get Credit For Life Skills

Photo by Ben Cheung on

by Lisa Lerner

Snow White

So, financial aid fun fact: I’ve been an emancipated minor since age fifteen after my mom was cougar crushing on this prince who wanted to get squishy with my lady bits. I ran away and found a cottage owned by seven bros who let me stay in exchange for coaxing cute forest animals to whistle while they work as unpaid housekeepers, which is a skill I never knew I had before my mom hired a huntsman to murder me. My new alternative-living situation has also given me the opportunity to hone my conflict resolution skills because, like, how many women have to deal with dudes who are sleepy, grumpy, dopey, withdrawn, bombastic, and cracking lame jokes all day? Okay, maybe lots of women, but just try it while someone is constantly sneezing goobers all over your bodice.


Believe it or not, I was still illiterate at the age of eighteen, until a couple of bluebirds taught me how to read royal announcements and study for the GED. Even though I got sepsis from an untreated fungal infection caused by sharing footwear with all the females in the countryside, my limbs were spared amputation and I married a prince. And while I’m now a royal, I still enjoy debating sanitation with rodents, so if I become fortunate enough to attend your prestigious college, I’d love to major in dry-cleaning studies.


Nothing is more important to me than tolerance and acceptance. I know what it means to be disabled in an abled world because a sea witch stole my voice. Also, my best friend is a Jamaican crab. I realize my Early Decision application is binding, but you had me at the Yale Report of 1828, which distinguishes between “expanding [the mind’s] powers, and storing it with knowledge.” For example, I’m still learning how to walk on dry land, but as long as I remember to only wear trainers, ballerina flats, or the occasional wedges for evening dress, I’m good.


I’m an introverted bookworm, yet I’m equally comfortable bantering with household objects or waltzing with a hideous beast. After said beast kidnapped my beloved father, I gained Papa’s freedom by using the international bargaining-for-prisoners maxim: “Take me instead because I’m much hotter.” Having spent a good portion of my youth locked up, I feel that I am best-suited for a business major, preferably leading to a career with a dope compensation package, just in case my marriage to the beast doesn’t work out, because even though he moved the needle a little and changed back into a prince, he’s still kind of a putz.


Lately, I feel like I’m in a whole new world. Ever since I got out of rehab, it feels like I’m in a dazzling place I never knew. I used to be way up here, high as a kite, but then it was crystal clear that I could be in a whole new world without shooting up. Now, even an ordinary trip to Pinkberry for some low-fat Cookies and Cream with Strawberry Popping Boba is filled with unbelievable sights and indescribable feelings. When I try on ripped jeans at Forever 21, I’m soaring, tumbling, and freewheeling through an endless diamond sky in the fitting room. There’s literally a hundred thousand things to see at Forever 21. I’m like a shooting star, I’ve come so far, and I can’t go back to where I used to shoplift Red Bull and Doritos from the 7-11 on Maple Street. Getting accepted to your esteemed learning institution would offer me new horizons to pursue and I would chase them anywhere, even a lecture hall with 300 other bored undergraduates who just want to fill their requirement for freshman comp. This whole college application process is literally a thrilling chase, a wondrous place, for you and me. And my parole officer.


I saved an Empire.

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