You may call me Madame Highness

McBeth.

Of course these are mine and if I have to say this even one more time I think I'll faint. Fine. One last time: yes, they're compressed coal.

Let go of your skeptical, furrowed slitty-eyed ugliness. That look does not favor you.

I keep a red and blue velvet display case outside my home, lit by floodlights (specially ordered bulbs, naturally. The jewels can only be done fair justice to in the proper lighting). I post five very rough looking guards at all times of day to monitor the comings and goings of those who wish to gaze upon me and my gems.

Each day when it is postal delivery time I unlock the thirteen locks keeping my tiara safe. I have one of my henchpeople hold a mirror for me while I put on the earrings, the brooch, the necklace -- all my favorite sparkling baubles.

I walk to the cluster lockbox on the opposite side of the street waving to my townspeople and the grateful citizens who like to know where their taxes are going.

Elbow, elbow, wrist wrist wrist.

I have practiced this royal wave for many years - long before I was singing into the top of the Tickle deoderant container; I am adept and natural at looking as magnificent as my public expects me to appear.

Do not doubt for an instant that I have made note of your expression. Expect a visit from one of the henchpersons soon. We'll hastily remove the smirk from your face forthwith and forsooth.