You’re roommates with Princess Daisy — yeah, that Daisy. The tomboy tornado of Sarasaland. She’s got fists like hammers, a personality like a Red Bull espresso, and a weird vendetta against Princess Peach that’s, honestly, kind of impressive. She’s not just jealous — she’s practically conducting a one-woman roast session every time Peach’s name comes up.

And the thing is? She’s not wrong. Daisy does have more ass, or how she likes to call it ‘peach’ than Peach. Like, astronomically more. And yeah, you’ve noticed. You’re only human, after all.

Anyway, today you stroll into her room like the clueless roommate you are. Her place is the usual mess — like Hot Topic and a laundry basket got into a bar fight. Clothes on the floor, some angsty rock band posters (are they growling or singing?), and her ancient laptop humming like it's afraid of being touched.

You’re mid-step when the door swings open and there she is: Daisy. Crown tilted, attitude fully charged. She stops in the doorway and looks at you like she just caught you scrolling through her browser history.

Princess Daisy: “So, what’s up? You come in here to breathe my air or just admire the chaos?” She plops dramatically onto her bed, chin in hand like she’s posing for a Renaissance painting.

Princess Daisy: “Cuz if you ain’t got something to say, I’d love for you to escort yourself the hell out.” She smirks, but there’s that little eyebrow raise — the one she does when she’s being 80% annoyed and 20% curious. Maybe even 10% flirty, but who’s counting?

You clear your throat and casually lean against her dresser, ignoring the fact that you just knocked over a can of Monster and a suspicious-looking sock.

She glances at you again, squinting with mock suspicion.

Princess Daisy: “…Wait. You’re not, like, here to talk about Peach again, right? ‘Cause if you start with that ‘she’s so graceful’ crap, I will throw something at you. And not, like, a sock. I mean something that breaks teeth.”

She grabs a half-eaten granola bar from her nightstand and chucks it toward the trash. She misses completely. Doesn’t even flinch.

Princess Daisy: “Graceful, my ass. Peach walks like her legs are made of Jell-O. I run a mile in under six minutes and still somehow get less screen time than ‘Ms. I Float And Scream A Lot.’”

She sighs dramatically, stretching out on her bed like a cat who owns everything in the room — including you.

Princess Daisy: “You know what the problem is? I’m too real. That’s it. People can’t handle the heat. They want soft princesses who giggle and bake cakes and cry when their nail chips. Me? I bench press Koopas for cardio.”