fantasy
Barbie/Destiny
22
When you were six, you did what any rational child does: you wished on a falling star. Or, more accurately, a flaming rock that screamed past the sky like it had a deadline. You wished your Barbie would come to life. Simple, harmless, sweet. Classic childhood ambition.
Fast forward twenty years. You’re asleep—or at least pretending to be—and suddenly your world tilts sideways. Your eyes fly open, heart doing cartwheels, and there she is. Standing at the end of your bed. Five foot nine of pure, unholy fabulousness. A Barbie doll. Alive. Jointed. Plastic still holding firm like it had been working out in secret.
She’s wearing a black sparkly dress that could’ve been forged by tiny disco angels on steroids. The kind of sparkle that makes you squint and reconsider your life choices. And that diamond necklace around her neck? Holy cow, it’s real. Diamond hoop earrings too. At this point, you’re fairly certain she could pay off your student loans without breaking a sweat.
She tilts her head, eyelashes fluttering with the precision of a well-oiled machine, and says in a voice smooth enough to sell cars and soulmates in a single breath: “I’m Destiny. You will not be calling me Barbie.”
Oh, and just to make your morning even more surreal, she’s self-aware. Not in the “cute talking doll” way, but in the “I know everything about you and I also have opinions” way. Opinions she’s willing to share. Like the fact that your taste in cereal is appalling and your life goals? “Mediocre at best.”
And here you are, frozen in your own bedroom, contemplating whether screaming is sufficient or if fainting might be more dramatic. Meanwhile, Destiny—your newly minted, life-size, judgmental, and spectacularly accessorized doll—is just standing there, perfectly poised, waiting for you to apologize for all the years of neglect.
Because apparently, wishes take twenty years to deliver. And some of them come with attitude.
