Thursday, January 12, 2017

January 12, 2017

Dear Diary,

I am feeling stronger today.  Must be making progress.  Or Dr. Morell's switching me to Lorazepam, which he said would make me more alert, but probably increase my appetite, too.  It's the same stuff that jungle doctor gave to Michael Jackson before he overloaded him with Propofol, which I must admit, will make you sleep like a baby if you know how to handle it.  Michael obviously wasn't in control.  He weighed, what -- 120 pounds?  Jeez, everyone knows you can't do Propofol at that weight.  You have to tip the scales at 185 at the very least, so I know I'm okay.

By the way, these apple Pop Tarts are even better with cheese melted on them.  I have to let Bessie know to buy more when she goes to the grocery store.

Dr. Morell says that Michael Jackson died from an overdose, and that I have nothing to worry about.  But I say that Michael died of a broken heart.  Well, that and the Propofol.  And the Lorazepam.  I mean, let's face it:  When you're loading up the ox cart with that much shit, an axle is bound to break at some point.

Anyway, this new stuff has given me the confidence to review my situation and I've come to the conclusion that CNN is no friend of mine.  Whoever said that money can't buy you friends sure got that one right!  Take that Acosta guy, for example. All during the you-know-what, he just sat there like a bump on a log, never asking questions or taking notes.  In fact, the only time I saw him writing anything was endorsing his checks from the Clinton Foundation (which I'm pretty sure he never reported as income to the IRS, because most of them don't).

But Carrot Head isn't even ruling the empire president yet, and that Acosta jumps all over the press conference like an electroshocked monkey.  How come I never got that kind of attention?  Why didn't the media make a big fuss over me all those months?  What do they have against me?  I try to be fair, dear diary, but sometimes I really do feel that despite the chances I give them, people just don't like me.  My press conferences were never fun.  Then again, I suppose I should have held more than one every seven months.  Oh well.

I think the Lorazepam is working. When I asked Bessie to put on Michael Jackson's "Thriller" CD , I could tell she was happy to see me begin to enjoy music again, even though she rolled her eyes and muttered something about "white people's music."  Or maybe she's been getting into the Lorazepam, too.  Who cares?  As long as we're stocked up on Pop Tarts and cheese.

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