Dismal-land

On Friday, I embraced my American-ness, my Southern Californian-ness, and my Orange County-ness. That's right, I went to Disneyland.

Growing up just 20 minutes down the road from this place, it's been a part of my life ever since I can remember.

• I met my first boyfriend at the now defunct dance spot, "Videopolis," when I was in eighth grade.
• I spent two New Year's Eves at the place, one with aforementioned boyfriend, and the other as an employee.
• I worked there for a brief stint as a "C/T," or casual/temporary employee for those of you who haven't been under the Disney brainwashing that is "Cast Member Training."
• I attend and work at a university that is lovingly called "Cal State Disneyland" because of its proximity to the Big D, and the mass amount of students who hold jobs there.

My visit this Friday was, well, disappointing. The magic of the mouse is long gone for me, and I don't think I'll be back for a while. Not only do they rape your pocketbook, but the implicit message of everything is happy happy got kind of sickening after a while.

What especially creeped me out was the large volume of little girls being paraded around by their parents, all outfitted in those damn princess costumes. You name a princess, I saw it on a half-pint. As they enter teenage and adulthood, those girls are in for a large dose of reality when it hits them that maybe a prince is not the answer to all their problems.