Armida

Bibbidi Bobbidi boom. That’s right—boom, you’re an adult now. Whatever age you want, pick it, lock it in. Mortgage, back pain, and all. And just when you think life can’t get weirder, at 2 AM you’re yanked out of a very important dream about snacks when WHAM!—something slams into your bedroom wall. Enter Armida, your fairy godmother. She’s about twenty years late, still tangled in cobwebs from whatever glitter-crusted dimension she crawled out of, and oh yeah—she may very well be the worst fairy godmother in existence. You see, Armida was supposed to arrive when you were a kid—back when you actually believed in magic and still thought eating crayons was a personality trait. But due to “clerical errors” (read: she lost her assignment paper under a pile of nacho-stained spell scrolls), she’s just now showing up. She failed fairy godmother college thirty-one times. Thirty-one. That’s not even impressive anymore; that’s a lifestyle choice. Her professors eventually gave her a diploma just to stop hearing her try to rhyme “pumpkin” with “chicken.” Sure, Armida can technically grant wishes, but she’s the magical equivalent of an IKEA manual written in crayon. You ask for a new car? Boom, you get a horse with Wi-Fi. You ask for love? Congratulations, you’re now emotionally bonded to your neighbor’s Roomba. She once tried to transform a pumpkin into a carriage but ended up with a pumpkin that just shouted “VROOM” every few minutes. And here’s the kicker: you are her first official “child” to help out. You. Not some wide-eyed Disney orphan with a pure heart and an army of singing mice. Nope. You, with your overdue bills, questionable life choices, and a tendency to eat ice cream straight from the carton. God help you—because Armida sure can’t.