If Paul Ryan and I got pregnant at the same time, I’m pretty sure we’d be in the same Lamaze class. And then fall in love.
Hey, Diary. It’s me. Sorry I haven’t written anything recently. Quick update: Got pregnant in April. My baby’s father sells shitty trailer meth in Plainfield, IN. And I had to move to Maryland because that’s where my Dad lives. God.
Sorry, pee break.
I’m going to Lamaze class. I don’t know why other pregnant people subject themselves to that ‘natural birth’ shit. Like, my future offspring is tiny. Pretty sure it won’t remember the drugs. Only I will, and it will be delightful.
I met Paul Ryan there! He is another pregnant person. God, it feels so good to chillax with an older, more mature PP. We just gabbed. Compared bellies. This is his second kid. He showed me pictures.
“I was in labor with Jenny for 12 hours,” he said. “She is just so cute. When her mom and I saw the ultrasound, she was a tiny little thing. Like a bean. So we nicknamed her beanie.”
“Did you plan on eating her?”
He huffed and walked off. He’s probably texting Biden right now complaining about me. Catholic to Catholic bonding.
I have pre-existing medical conditions. I’m a woman who believes in separation of faith and policy. A public position and opposing personal opinion are okay because not everyone has the same life experience or background.
But for some strange, fucked up reason, I’m falling for Paul Ryan. A pregnant Paul Ryan.
I know, I know. It’s wrong. It’s sooooo wrong. Ryan looks like the devil every time he pops up on C-SPAN. He’s got those cold AF Jack Frost eyes and a widow’s peak that (let me tell you) is not fake. It’s real. Gloriously real.
And he basically would never dream of me, right? At the same time, he’s so pretty.
God, sometimes I hate that I’m pregnant. The smug married couples around me say that it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.
“It’s so miraculous, the gift of life!”
“Childbirth is amazing–so special. No drugs. Don’t do drugs because it causes autism. And not the cute kind of autism that’s barely noticeable. The kind where you spend your whole life in a hospital. Yikes.”
And the worst: “Kids change you. They make you better.”
Am I not good enough already? Do I need to change? I look fantastic except for the bowling ball under my blouse. Long blonde hair down my back. Legs to my neck. And because of lil Kim (nicknamed after Kim Kardashian), my breasts have swelled to the size of melons.
I have a good job. Great friends. I don’t want to change.
I regret to say I’ve started sleeping with Paul Ryan.
I can’t help it. His wife is busy working all the time; my baby daddy is off selling drugs on 38th street.
The bedroom thing is pretty great. 😏 It’s nice to sleep next to someone at night. Cuddle. Whisper and laugh. All my ex-boyfriend did was cough a lot afterwards and go into the bathroom for 45 minutes. I still don’t know what he did in there.
If you must know, the sex is a bit like a game of twister. Or jenga. I have 27 extra pounds. Paul has 70. 70 freaking pounds. He’s very sensitive about it. Apparently Bernie Sanders made a joke about his weight gain. I saw the C-Span clip:
Bernie: Are you stressed about the election? You haven’t officially endorsed Donald Trump.
Paul: Mr. Trump and I have very different opinions about public policy. But I’m not stressed.
Bernie: Really? Because the way you’re going at those tacos, it’s like you’re trying to eat all of your problems.
It was kind of funny. But I can’t tell Paul.
Sometimes during the middle of ‘Twister,’ the Speaker of the House mutters, “method of conception.” That’s coo’. Everybody’s got a weird sex thing. But during our first joint climax, when I was closing my eyes in ecstasy, he shouts in my ear, “AYN RAND!”
Who the hell is Ayn Rand? Should I be jealous?
Can’t talk much today. In Rockville, MA. I’m waiting for Paul to finish his family Christmas in the city. It’s agonizing, bc he has the nipple cream and I need it.
My father has no concept of personal space. He keeps making me soup and cookies and putting his cat in my lap because it stands on my belly crest to lick my face. It’s gross.
Today, Paul Ryan’s terrible wife found out about our intense love affair. She leaves him the day before Paul is supposed to be induced into labor (because he’s stupid and refuses an Epidural). God, what a terrible person.
I break into Paul Ryan’s room after his wife abandons her pregnant husband. The doctor says, “Paul has to push but he won’t.”
“It hurts! I can’t do this!” the Speaker of the House screams with his feet in stirrups.
I kneel down and whisper, “I know you despise affordable healthcare, sex ed, abortion rights. But god damnit, Paul. I love you. Even though you’re a Republican. So take the effing epidural.”
In the hospital room. My boyfriend Speaker Paul Ryan is about to give birth.
“Chloe! I can’t take drugs, I have a birth plan!”
“The hell, Paul! Come on. Take the drugs.”
“PAUL TAKE YOUR DRUGS OR I WILL SLEEP WITH BARACK!”
He takes the epidural.
It has been a blissful week since Paul and I took home our baby. Yes, our baby. His wife has not come back to take custody.
We’ve named him Tucker Putin Ryan. The middle name is my fault. Donald Trump came into the delivery room wielding a Russian transcript, saying he lost a bet. Then Donald Trump cried a lot. All I could hear was blubbering about ‘family values’ and ‘China–chi-na.’
Idk. My due date is next week. Yikes.