I am a self proclaimed princess. I choose that situation for myself for two very specific reasons. First, and most importantly, I love the look and the feel of a tiara on my head. This needed physical sensation on the crown of my head is often satisfied with a pair of sunglasses. Once the accessory is in place, my posture reflects confidence and pride and I am ready to benefit my subjects. This rational follows my dedication to chronicle the facts, and the alternative title of “historian” sounds so prudish to me. As a scion and a thoroughbred, I claim a high moral caliber of pride from all those who yielded and I vow to strengthen the current standing of my benefactors with a legacy. My folks’ tree of characters progressed succinctly to shape America’s history. Consequently, by way of many political campaigns, my blood is replicated from the veins of Charlemagne. Exciting enough, the Keith’s of the Earl Marchand’s had castles in Scotland and I’m anticipating an opportunity to refurbish it with modern plumbing. So with that, my self proclaimed title, it seems to me, is justified; and as soon as I am pronounced an official tenant of the Keith chateau abroad, or otherwise Earl, I’ll throw a big coronation ball! My name will then be known to all as The Lady Cynthia.
Cynthia references the mythological Goddess of the Moon. As a child I briefly thought my name could be a version of Cinderella only without the mice. But after my latest adventure at the D. D. Keith Estate, I claim the mice to be my most competent caretakers.