Tuesday, December 27, 2016

December 27, 2016

Dear Diary,

I just looked at the little calendar on my watch and saw that it's already more than a month since the you-know-what and I still haven't gotten out of bed.  Dr. Morell says that it's normal for someone like me (he always says that I'm special) to allow herself plenty of time to recover from trauma, and I think he's right.  I've really been through a lot.

But maybe it is time for me to get up and around a little bit.  Little hints are telling me that at the very least, I should allow Bessie or Jemima or whatever her name is to come in here and change the linens and maybe open a window.  She's in here every day but she doesn't stay long.  She just looks at me, shakes her head and mutters something to herself about Jesus.

The other day she mentioned something under her breath about it smelling like a shit wagon in my room and that "those skid marks won't be coming out of those sheets if they don't see some suds pretty soon."  I know she's trying to help and I appreciate it.  After all, twenty two Fabreze air fresheners in one room can only help so much.

Every once in a very great while, I get a phone call from someone trying to make me feel better about the way things have happened.  Yesterday, I was pretty surprised to get a call from that asswipe FBI Director Jim Comey, who wanted to come see me, but I told him he'd be a clearer target better off waiting a bit, until I was in a little better shape to see people.  That man can really be a pest, but I did my best to put on a happy face and let him know that bygones are bygones and that as far as I'm concerned, I hold no more of a grudge against him than I would against Ron Brown or Vince Foster.

It's not easy putting on a happy face, though. It's not like I can paint on some make up and pretend that everything is just fine. Everything is not fine. And that backstabbing Barack character isn't helping matters at all, claiming that he could have won a third term against Carrot Head.  Can you imagine? Here he is, less than thirty days away from a full time career of looking for pick-up basketball games (or whatever those people do) and the best he can do is insult me?  I know what he meant, dear diary, and you know what he meant, too. If he weren't a you-know-what, I'd go public.

But I can't go public.  I'm in too much pain.  The kind of pain that only a woman can know.  Well, not just any woman.  A woman like me, whose destiny has been stolen and heart has been broken.  It's like "Evita" but without the public executions.

I have to paint on a happy face.  Like a clown,, smiling on the outside, crying on the inside.  Even doubling up on the Lithium, it's a slow, painful process.  A clown.  Is that what I am?  How can I go on?  Then again, it didn't do so badly for John Wayne Gacy.

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