Note: This is an update to the Paul Ryan Diaries I started last year. It is long overdue, and I’m sorry. The narrator in no way expresses all my opinions but is a character based off of me. This is entirely fictional.
April 11th, 2018
Well, dear diary. We meet again. You have been my confidant but my enemy. I have no idea why I am even writing. Except there has been a lot of shit going on.
- I have two fucking one-year-olds. They want to cry all the time. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but my daughter’s name is Michelle. Paul got mad because he has a tiff with Michelle Obama. He says it’s because she married Obama, who is apparently a Muslim according to Republicans. I don’t think that’s the reason. I snooped in his phone, and he texted Schumer that he thought she looked glorious in her pregnancy photos. Don’t tell him I know that.
- I am graduating from college soon. At the age of 23. And my only object is to be the trashy Plainfield girlfriend who looks after the kids. I do love my children. Tucker is as mopey as Michelle.
- Paul is not running for re-election.
He said it. He consulted me. I think it’s pretty clear what has happened. The Prez looks as guilty as Mark Zuckerburg during the confessional hearings. Ha! As if Teddie Cruz is a priest. I miss making fun of Ted. The only thing he’s done worthwhile is like a porn tweet. 😦 I expected more (porn) from you, Ted. I expected more.
When the Speaker got home, we played a nice game of Twister, if you get my jist. 😉 Guess that’s not very subtle. We did it. I did it with my boyfriend. It was very good. I am a sex goddess. He told me so. He was in a great mood after announcing his retirement. He danced when he saw me.
He said, “Chloe. You are beautiful. Will you do me the honor…”
Here I froze. He wasn’t going to propose naked, was he? On the other hand, I quite liked the scene where Pierce Brosnan showers Halle Berry in diamonds while in a devilish position.
“…of having another baby with me?”
I could not find words. I was very disappointed that he did not want to marry me. In truth, I had already started a Pinterest board of wedding ideas. Kim Kardashian and Jane Fonda were invited. Kanye could fuck himself. I do not forgive him for the Taylor Swift incident.
“Paul,” I finally said. “Are you of this planet? I just gave birth–we both gave birth–a year ago. We got two freakin’ kids. The only way I pacify them is by shoving iPads down their throats and threatening them with Catholic school. Not like they understand, but it soothes me.”
“But you know I want a big family.”
“What, you want a repeat of the Duggars? You know how that shit ended. I am keeping my little friend, Miss IUD,” I concluded.
“Don’t I get to play a part in this?”
“You know how you compared fetuses to beans? Well, I like beans. In moderation. But there is a reason edamame is not as popular as wine and chocolate.”
“I consider children more like green beans,” he admitted.
“Do they have the bacon and grease in them?”
“No. I only have 6%-8% body fat, and I don’t want to lose my figure.”
“Then no children. There aren’t enough pots to cook them in,” I said.
“How many pots do we need??”
“MORE THAN TWO POTS, PAUL RYAN!”
And then we went to bed. Well, I went on the sofa. Paul still has nightmares about Putin. Something about how he’s stealing all his stilettos and he has nothing to wear to the Zombie-themed prom.