Not feeling so good today. I'm flooded with conflict. On the one hand, I know I really should be up and about, planning my
The last time I felt this despondent was when Bill was in office and he put me in charge of creating a national health plan. Remember that? Those really were the good old days, way before that you-know-what totally copied my idea, completely did an end run on me and let that bitch Pelosi ram Obamacare up Mitch O'Connell's ass. I was so mad I could scream when he gave it to Pelosi. She's such a bitch. I swear, I don't even know how she has facelifts any more. There's nothing left to cut. The doctor should just grab her by the hair, yank real hard and sew her up at the top. Ugh.
Anyway, when I was
I think much of what conflicts me is about feeling love. Back in those days, we had a cat named Socks. Bill named him after his mother, who apparently was pretty much of a punching bag for his boozer step-father, Anyway, I hated that cat and I'm pretty sure he wasn't fond of me. Actually, I know he didn't like me, because one time I came home from shopping and smelled something awful in my bedroom. The minute I opened the door, Socks scampered out and I was almost knocked over by the smell that flea-infested tool of Satan left on my pillow. For no reason at all, he'd left a steaming pile of poop where I lay my head every night. I felt violated!
Bill said that it was all my fault, because I left the door open to my room, but I know I locked it before I left. I always do. I'm very careful about my bedroom. It's where I keep all my very valuable stuff, including the special black vinyl eighteen inch "John Henry" I'd received for Christmas from Becky, my personal assistant at the time. She was a great help to me, always making sure we had plenty of D batteries on hand.
I don't want any sympathy, dear diary. I'm a doer, not a sayer. If I have a problem, I buck up and solve it. And I solved my problem with Socks. It's not my fault that cats can't tolerate bleach.