“Dear Diary,
Oh-Emm-Gee, I had the dream again last night! You know the one - where I'm asleep in one of those fancy canopy beds with the curtains, and the big double picture window-door things swing open, and the fancy Victorian drapes billow in the warm night air, and he floats in. Yeah, it was him, Trump-sempai, all buff and sweaty from what I imagine are his arduous workouts and not from the strenuous effort of running away from his many, many legal problems? Anyway, he was standing there in the moonlight, his hair blowing in the breeze like a yak in a wind tunnel, and he looked at me and said, “Wait, this isn't Ivanka's room? This isn't the room of a twelve-year-old girl at all!” And I couldn't even breath, Diary, he was just so dreamy, with his leathery, sallow skin, you could really see the flop sweat, bronzer and what I assume was bacon grease just accentuating the wrinkles on his aged face. He stood there like a Greek god - Dionysus, I think, all fat and slovenly. He leaned over me, and I was just shaking, thinking he was going to finally kiss me, but no, it turns out that he just stands at a forty-five degree angle for some reason; I think he saw Smooth Criminal once and he's been trying to do The Lean ever since. I wish I could tell you it ended with Trump-sempai sweeping me into his thick, meaty arms and belching sweet nothings into my ear, but my stupid Mom woke me up before I could get to the good part, and I had to take care of myself in the shower, sorry for the TMI.”
