The fairy godmother watches over her godchild from above, gets her a dress for the dance, a pair of glass slippers. If the godchild doesn't have a ride, the fairy godmother finds her a carriage. You know the story.
But what you don't know is there's only so much a fairy godmother can do. She sits on a lawn chair in her living room, smoking Marlboros and watching her godchild through an old t.v. set. After midnight, the godchild's on her own. Her glass slippers dissolve to flip-flops, her carriage to a milk carton. The flip-flops snap like chewing gum as the godchild walks backwards along the highway, her thumb in the air. A car pulls up beside her. She trusts the wrong person who says "Trust me" and gets in. Back at the house, the fairy godmother takes another drag on her cigarette, wishes the t.v. screen would go blank, wishes she didn't have to see.