Today, I was crowned queen of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes I’ll admit it, it does sound ridiculous. It sounds like some vaguely impressive but deeply undistinguished fictional title I dreamed up for myself which I had no authority to designate (kind like that time a boy in my grade called himself the “Coldsore King” after a strain of herpes virus set up camp on his lip and began to conquer territory in the northern cheek region leaving a yellowed, crusty trail of destruction). But this is not one of those titles.

This is as legitimate as Tony Abbott knighting Prince Phillip, except my title has actual quantifiable meaning and was earned.

Like Queen Elizabeth apparently owns all the swans (much to my disgust, as my desire to eat one would supposedly land me in some very hot water with the old bird – yeah, no doubt we’ll come back to the “I want to eat a swan” thing in the not too distant future but that’s another story for another time), I have some kind of jurisdiction over pieces of processed chicken mushed into the shape of a brachiosaurus. I’m not saying that I own them, but they are my subjects now. What that means, only time will tell.

How might this happen, you may ask? It’s simple. I spent my Sunday afternoon moulding a prehistoric scene out of vegetables and gravy, embedded a few choice Dino Snacks and posted it on social media. Some people question to legitimacy of the Internet, claiming it is the breeding grounds of meaningless egotistical frivolity, but this is an exception. This noble action caught the eye of Steggles, and they decided to award me not only a month’s supply of Dino Snacks, but also bestowed a title so grand I will be adding it to my name.

Like recipients of the Order of Australia Medal chuck an “OAM” on their business cards and neurosurgeons whack a “Dr” before their name , I will add my own honours. Dannielle Maguire, Queen of Dino Snacks, overlord of the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. It’s a title I should be proud of. While my roommate worked on her assignments to become a clinical psychologist, I moulded mountains out of mushy peas. While people helped find abandoned puppy dogs new homes, I was propping up broccoli trees. While scientists were researching a cure for cancer, I was fashioning a goddamned erupting volcano out of a goddamned sweet potato. In the end, who made the world a better place?

I mean, this is the greatest achievement of my life. That scene will be the most glorious thing I’ll have ever created, and I’ll remind my future children of that every day. As much as I have faith in my ability to brew up a top-notch human, nothing I could never produce fruit from my womb ever top that – suddenly, I understand how Jesus’ mum must have felt. In comparison, everything else is mediocre at best. “Yes Dannielle Junior,” I’ll tell my child, “it’s all well and good that you’ve disproved the theory of relativity, but have you ever been crowned the queen of dinosaur-shaped chicken products? No.”

There’s many a lesson that can be learned from my ascent to power. For one, you should play with your food. Number two, never listen to the voice in your head telling you greatness is out of reach. Because it’s not. Some people have greatness thrust upon them, while others get up out of bed and boil greatness in a saucepan, scoop success out of a food processor and model honour on a plate. It’s like the saying goes: good things happen to those who make gravy with specific viscosity specifications to mimic lava. Success will come if you’re true to yourself and your passions (for me, that passion is processed chicken).

I must admit, I’m feeling pretty damned empowered. This morning I awoke from my slumber as a common girl, but tonight, the head that touches my pillows will be that of a ruler, a noblewoman, a deity. I feel there is nothing else I cannot do if I put my mind to it: I can tackle the world.

Now all that’s left to do is forge a throne out of chicken offcuts.