Wednesday, June 28, 2017

June 28, 2017

Dear Diary,

I'm beginning to think that people are keeping secrets from me. I already know that Bessie pretends to change my bedsheets every week, but I'm not blind. I see the same stains in the same places, month in and month out. They match up perfectly with my bed sores, so nobody is fooling anyone here.

Of more concern to me is that Bill is lying to me, as well. Dr. Morell says I'm getting all excited over nothing and that this paranoia is all just side effects of the Ambien, but I know something is going on because I overheard Bill talking to someone on the phone about taking out a reverse mortgage on the house. That can only mean two things:

Either we're broke or Bill really wants to meet Tom Selleck, which wouldn't surprise me. The last time he talked about "getting some cash out of the house" was when Fred Thompson was still alive pitching reverse mortgages and Bill had this man-crush on him after watching two seasons of "Law & Order." He didn't even know Fred was a senator from Tennessee. He insisted that since we were moving to New York, it would help a lot if we were "on good terms with the Assistant District Attorney."  I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth, because at the time he was all skinny and weak and pretty beaten up from his open heart zipper job.

I know that our Jewish accountant was here the other day, and he didn't look too happy, either. And you know when it comes to money, those people are never wrong. So this thing with Bill must be serious.

My guess is that there's no more cash in the Clinton Family Research Trust -- that's the one Bill always called "the titty bar fund" -- and that his speaking fees have dropped like a rock since this whole "private conversation about our grandchildren in the airplane" thing blew up.  Serves him right. It may have cost him his stripper money, but it cost me the you-know-what.

I just hope this doesn't affect my credit rating.

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