Dear diary:
It didn’t work. Maybe I should have plagiarized all of Michelle Obama’s Convention speech, or maybe I should have just repeated the words “I love Hillary” over and over again, but now I’m feeling doomed. I wish I were back in Slovenia, modelling polyester cardigans and telling our goat, “Someday, I will sail to America and marry a rich, handsome man.” I should have listened when the cow, who was eavesdropping, said, “Bloomberg.”
Life is strange. For so many years, I assumed that when Donald would tell me that he wanted to be President he was just dreaming, like when he said that he wanted to be a real boy. But he kept saying it, even after Ivanka swatted him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
As a stepmom, I worry about Donald’s older sons, who remind me of Teletubbies dressed up as eighties stockbrokers. I once asked Donald, “With all your money, can’t you buy those boys chins?” Eric and Donald, Jr., love to go hunting in Africa and slaughter beautiful animals for sport. As I told my trainer, “They keep trying to make their father notice them. But he still calls them Thing One and Thing Two.”
Last week, I had brunch with Ivanka, and we stared at each other blankly until, finally, she said, “When I made my speech, I just pretended I was talking about Hillary.” Then she told me that she’d converted to Judaism because Jews don’t have Hell.
What is to become of me? If Donald wins, I will be forced to stand by his side for hours, playing that game where I count the exit signs and imagine that my real life is waiting behind one of them. Or I think about writing a series of children’s books—“The Beautiful Princess and the Ogre with No Friends,” “The Beautiful Princess and the Orange Baboon Who Doesn’t Pay Taxes,” and “The Beautiful Princess Who Misses Her Old Boyfriend Vanko, from Slovenia.”
Donald says that when I become First Lady I will need to have a cause. So far, I’ve come up with the following:
Helping women learn to flash their eyes alluringly.
Getting poor women tickets to fashion shows, so that they will feel less poor for a few minutes.
Avoiding Chris Christie’s sweaty desperation; he knows I can’t help him, because no one can.
Donald says that I will also need to fight radical Islam, but I tell him, “Donald, you already made me shake hands with Scott Baio, so I think I’ve done more than enough.”
Last night, I was so worried that I called Hillary and poured my heart out to her. She was very comforting, and promised that she’d try her best to win, for my sake. We agreed that if Donald loses the best thing will be for nobody to tell him. That way, he can keep tweeting about how much everyone loves him, and he won’t leave his office and bother me.
I have to go now, because Roger Ailes is coming over for dinner. Maybe I’ll finally stand up for myself and tell Donald, “This isn’t what I signed up for. I don’t want to be First Lady, and I really don’t need to watch Roger Ailes eat.”
Wish me luck, diary! ♦
