[...] being human is being a young child on Christmas Day who receives and absolutely magnificent castle. And there is a perfect photograph of this castle on the box and you want more than anything to play with the castle and the knights and the princesses because it looks like such a perfect human world, but the only problem is that the castle isn't built. It's in tiny intricate pieces, and although there's a book of instructions you don't understand it. And nor can your parents or Aunt Sylvie. So you are just left, crying at the ideal castle on the box which no one would ever be able to build.
I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale. I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet, lean her up the stairwell. I was a dreamer before you went and let me down. Now it's too late for you and your white horse to come around.
Mothers give sons permission to be a prince but the father must show him how. Fathers give daughters permission to be princesses and mothers must show them how. Otherwise, both boys and girls will grow up and always see themselves as frogs.