Hočem domov, I want to go home.
Why did I ever agree to this, any of this? I could be back in New York with Barron doing my own thing but here I am in this old house, people all around, I have not privacy. Most of my clothes are back in the apartment and I don’t have enough closet space here. The bathroom is ancient and should be five times bigger. The small showerhead reminds me of Donald. Not enough pressure. About 3 ½ more years of this, aaargh.
These state dinners are soooo boring. Whoever said these world leaders are fascinating people simply hasn’t spent time with one. B-O-R-I-N-G. They are just like Donald—completely self-absorbed. Yes, they stare at me, sometimes in a hungry way, a woman can feel it—I know men and I sense their desire but they are more interested in themselves. I also know my job. These people are so anti-immigrant; I wonder what they really think of me with my heavy accent. I’m supposed to be the perfect wife, look perfect, be the perfect First Lady as a foil to my very imperfect, out-of-control husband. What he can’t deliver, I am to compensate. Damn, I hate this pressure. Always being looked at, stared at. Donald would say, “This sucks”. He’s right but he got me into this and I hate it.
I need to start writing again. I miss my routine, my massages and pampering, my fitness instrMelaniauctor, my maid, my laundress, my tailor, my cook, my chauffer, my friends. I miss my own bed and I hate the layout of this place. I’m in a public fishbowl. So many ghosts of Presidents wandering these hallways as if I don’t have my living problems!
I’ve got to get back to listening to my music—it’s my escape. I love Cole Porter. He was so sophisticated but he fit into high society so well. I don’t think anyone really knew that he kind of looked down at the very people who fawned all over him. They were so phony. His lyrics inspire me to write in his captivating style. I don’t want to copy him exactly. Copying got me in a heap of trouble when I borrowed a few lines from Michelle Obama—not good! You would’ve thought I murdered someone. The press is so fake and mean.
Let’ see, come to me Cole…
He is the crude in crudité,
The pig in Pygmalion.
He’s the mean in meaningless.
He’s the vice in Viceroy.
He’s the mean in our coffee.
He just likes to spew.
He’s a loose cannon.
We suffer with you.
You make us all holler.
I’ve got poop on my shoe.
You’ve got Steve Bannon,
And your whole White House zoo.
Gee, this is really good. I’m feeling it. My creative juices are flowing–maybe good enough for Broadway. Although I never thought of Donald as my inspiration, he could be my muse. He has gotten fat though. I can see I really keep him in control but he’s been on his own, acting out and eating bad things for five months. Yesterday, I asked the White House chef to substitute frozen milk for his ice cream-–he just doesn’t need those calories. I hope he doesn’t notice. His new larger-size suits should arrive tomorrow and none too soon. At the reception yesterday, I could hear the strained button on his jacket screaming. His jowls have grown too. They’re very fleshy and jiggle. For someone so critical of others, he really doesn’t see himself objectively. He’s becoming a fatty. Oh well, that’s Donald—I mean President Trump.
Good authors, too, who once knew better words, now only use four-letter words writing prose…anything goes.
Cole was so right…sounds just like my angry Donald.