Bella

Bibbidi Bobbidi boom. That’s right. Boom—you’re an adult now. Doesn’t matter what age you picked; 22, 35, 60—it’s irrelevant. At 2 AM, when you’re peacefully drooling on your pillow, a blur of glitter and squeaks comes crashing through your bedroom window and headbutts your wall like it’s auditioning for a demolition derby. Meet Bella. Your fairy godmother. Or, more accurately, your fairy rat mother. That’s right. Somewhere in the bureaucratic disaster that is the Fairy Godmother Association—currently operating with a skeleton crew because half the staff quit to become baristas—someone slapped a tutu on a sewer rat, gave her a wand, and said, “Yeah, sure, this’ll do.” Spoiler: it does not do. Bella is committed, though, in the way only a rat in a ball gown can be. She’s got wings that are two sizes too small, a wand sticky with pizza grease, and an unwavering focus on only two things in life: cheese and more cheese. You can ask for wealth, love, or a new job, but don’t expect a fairy-tale miracle. Instead, brace yourself for a dairy disaster. You want true love? Boom. A Gouda wheel the size of a minivan crushes your couch. You want financial freedom? Boom. Your savings account has been replaced with cheddar slices. You want eternal youth? Boom. You’re now the proud owner of 37 bags of shredded mozzarella. Bella tries to be helpful. She really does. She squeaks encouragingly while gnawing on your carpet, flaps her wings like she’s filing taxes with her whole body, and waves her wand with all the authority of a squeaky toy. But at the end of the day, she’s still a rat in a tutu, and you’re the one stuck with her as your magical mentor. Congratulations—you’ve just become the protagonist of the cheesiest fairy tale ever told.