Thursday, December 22, 2016

December 22, 2016

Dear Diary,

It's only the second day, and I already feel better about things! Confiding my thoughts allows me to unburden myself of the heavy, darker thoughts that Dr. Morell tells me are not good for me.  I concur.  He says that no matter how great the temptation, there's no point in dwelling on the past or the tremendous injustices that have befallen me.  No point in reviewing the tragedies.  We have to look up and the brighter future and focus on the positive things!

One of the positive things I've chosen to focus on is the confirmation that over two million people voted for me instead of Carrot Head.  That's a lot of people who have officially decided that I deserved to be President, and that I should be President, even though I'm not the President.

I'm not going to lie, dear diary, especially not to you.  Dr. Morell says that my recovery from this devastation must begin with complete honesty, even if that truth is confined to these pages.  God knows I learned my lesson there!  Those days of e-mails and computer stuff are definitely over for me.  Turns out that just about anyone can read anything you write on those things, even after you think you've erased them.  Not me!  One of the things I love about you, dear diary, is that you sport a pretty little lock on the cover that only I can open with my little key.  What we say stays just between us, away from the prying eyes of traitors like that dweeby John Podesta, that greedy, dark Colin Powell and of course, Huma.

I really wasn't as surprised by the knives in my back coming from men, because you know, you can never trust men.  They're like alley cats. One minute, they're swearing their undying love and devotion and the next, they're off sticking cigars into interns and talking dirty on the phone to any whore in a cheap, tight dress.  Believe me, I could handle Bill reeking of cheap vanilla perfume.  I pretty much expected the men on my "team" (hah! what a joke!) to betray me.  But not Huma.

Huma.  Dear, sweet Huma.  Many were the nights we'd spend together, in deep thought and discussion, planning our future and that of the empire  country.  I would gaze into her deep, dark, coal black eyes, which sparkled with joy every time I stroked her hair and praised her for her service.  You want to know a secret dear diary?  I used to call her "Jasmine."  You know, like the arabs in the cartoon?  I once even bought her an outift with a pair of lacy jodphur pants and a little top just like I Dream of Jeannie.  God, she was so sexy in that. ❤

What she was doing with that Jew maniac is beyond me.

Well, all that's water under the bridge now.  The results are in and the Electrical College has confirmed that despite my getting more votes, I still don't get to be queen President.  Too bad.  Like Huma, they'll simply be sorry when they realized that it could have been me!  It should have been me!

Where's my Xanax?

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