I know I'm not the only victim of 2016, but it sure feels like it. I've been through so much that I'm pretty sure even Debbie Reynolds wouldn't want to switch places with me. I won't be sorry to see 2016 go, but I can't say that I'm looking forward to 2017. Dr. Morell insists that with enough determination, patience and Xanax, I can overcome this seemingly interminable funk.
Tonight, of course, is the very last night of the year, which means it's New Years Eve. Honestly, dear diary, I've never been a big fan of New Years Eve, especially after last year's fiasco at Chelsea's place. I'd really wanted to go to Huma's little hideaway and ring in the year the way we usually do (hint, hint), but at the time, the Secret Service was already giving me trouble about where I could go and who I could
Don't get me wrong, dear diary. I love little Chel like a daughter, but if I'm to be perfectly honest -- and Dr. Morell says I have to be -- she makes the worst choices. Take that Jew husband of hers, for example. I was never fond of him, but Bill said that his family had money and that unlike Carrot Head's family, Chel could was never going to make it on her looks so we had to take our best shot with her. I had to agree, but why she chose to marry a Jew is beyond me. I mean, he's not bad in the looks department, but what kind of Jew loses 95% of his investors' money in a Greek hedge fund? I thought Jews are supposed to be good with money, but this guy is the absolute worst. I'm pretty sure Bill lost a ton of the
Chel also can't decorate to save her life. Even as a child, I'd have to lay out her clothes before she left for school, because she always matched polka dots with stripes or greens with browns. I don't know if she's color blind or just plain blind, but all the way up to college, there I was, waking her up each morning and racing her to the closet before she could dress herself and walk out of the house looking like a Jackson Pollack painting.
At least her career choices haven't been quite as disastrous. Watching her on NBC was as cringeworthy as it gets, and that's a mother talking about her own child. How and why those greaseball executives at NBC decided to pay her $600,000 a year for pointless stories that would bore the daylights out of fourth grade children is beyond me. I remember one time, Bill and I were watching one of her stories and when I wasn't looking, Bill had already been to the gun cabinet and had the barrel lodged in his mouth. If I hadn't quickly grabbed it and stuck it in my own, we would have had a serious problem there, but at least one of us would have been spared watching her next segment.
This year, Chel and the Jew want us to come over to their place again, but I just don't know that I'm up to it. Bill is pushing me to go, but I know that's just because he wants to drop me off there so he can cat around for a few hours and hope nobody notices he's gone. He always does that, then shows up an hour later all bleary-eyed and sniffing a lot. Also, by putting me in a crowd, it takes him off the hook for my suicide watch. Dr. Morell thinks it's a good idea if I go, but not to push it beyond two Xanax every hour.
And this New Years Eve, no drinking for me. The last time I got near a bottle of scotch, they say I nearly killed Podesta. But there's no video, so it's their word against mine.