From the Personal Diary of HOPE CHARLOTTE HICKS

I am, like, so totally misunderstood! Seriously, Dear Diary, people think they know me but they don’t!!! I think they’re jealous. Just because I’m young, beautiful and smart, they want to drag me down. Well guess what Dear Diary? I’m a strong woman. I can take it. #MeToo.

I’m not saying Donald—I mean, Mister President—ever did anything inappropriate with me. Anything that happened was concensh—conshen—corntensh—oh darn it, Dear Diary, you know what I mean!!!! He didn’t grab me like those other ladies say he grabbed them. But I don’t think he grabbed them either. They’re liars. You know, people always try to sue him to get some money because they’re dirty little grubs. I was talking with Ivanka the other day—God, I love that girl!!!—and she was saying how much she hates those b*****s (I can’t really write the word b/c it’s dirty) and I do too! They’re all mad because they’re not young and beautiful and smart like me and Ivanka. Like it’s Donald’s, I mean Mister President’s fault they’re old uggers! I mean, get a life, ladies!!!!

People wanna know why I left. Well, Dear Diary, here’s something you can’t tell anyone!!!! I mean, lips sealed! Cross your heart and hope to die!!!! Well, three weeks ago Mister President and me were drinking slurpees on the Truman Balcony—it was kind of warm that day—and he put his hand on my knee and said, “Hopy-Dopy (that’s his endearing nickname for me, tee hee!), maybe it’s time you went back to being a model before you lose your looks.”

“How do you mean, Mister President?” I asked him. I mean, I’m only 29! And I look 19!!! I dermascrub every day, I have the best laser doctor in the District, I get two head-to-toe facials a week, I do my own hot-spot fillers and ultrasonic plumping, and I diet like there’s no tomorrow. Like, look at this skin, Dear Diary!!! Flawless!!! So I didn’t know what Mister President meant by “before you lose your looks.”

So I said, like, “Oh, Dompy (that’s my affectionate nickname for him), doesn’t Daddy-Waddy likey Baby-Boo any-moo?” (We tend to talk babytalk when we have those intimate moments together.) And he squeezed my knee even harder and then he moved his hand a little further up my thigh. You know, Dear Diary, people say he has tiny, fat hands, and they are kinda pudgy, and his fingers are cold. But he’s really very sweet. That’s what Melania doesn’t understand. She’s a hard one, that girl. I call her The Sloppy Slovenian. Her clothing is very couture, but when she’s off camera it’s, like, all sweats and T-shirts, and she hardly ever bathes. Like, on hot days, her pits smell like a garbage dump! And she doesn’t shave. Well, those Europeans are very—how should I say it?—well, like Donald, I mean, Mister President says, they’re not like us. Not American!!!!

I guess I could go back to being a model. Victoria’s Secret contacted me a while back and asked if I was interested, which I’m not. I won’t do skin anymore. I’d like to be a big T.V. star like Megyn Kelly. Somebody told me she makes, like, $15 million a year at NBC. And I’m just as pretty as her. Prettier! Besides she’s old, old, old!!!! Almost fifty. Eeewww. I can’t imagine being that old. I asked Donald, “Mister President, who do you think is prettier, me, Megyn Kelly or Melania?” and he stroked my hair and gave me a bite of his Big Mac. He’s such a giver!

I could use the money, to tell the truth, Dear Diary. My lawyer bill is up to $650,000 already. I don’t know what that mean man, Muller or whatever his name is, wants. He’s so dirty. I just know he’s a liberal, probably an Islamic radical who’s out to get Mister President. I could tell when I looked into his eyes. I’m very sensitive, as you know, Dear Diary, and I could tell I was looking into the soul of a Hater. It’s like Sean Hannity was saying, there are evil people out there and we have got to stop them!!!!

I asked Donald, I mean Mister President, if we could still see each other when I leave the White House and he said it was no problem, the Secret Service would take care of it. They’re so clever. I remember one night in Mar-a-Lago when Melania was there and they were entertaining some foreign dignatery, digatory, dingledary, well, you know, a very important personage from some foreign country someplace, and while Melania was having tea and cookies with him in the ballroom, the Secret Service brought me in through the servant’s entrance to Donald’s, I mean Mister President’s private apartment by the garden, and Melania never even knew! Tee hee, it makes me giggle. Donald told her he had to take an important call and he came to see me for, like, fifteen minutes, and then he put his pants back on and went back to the ballroom and I’m sure Melania was none the wiser! I do feel sorry for her, a little, but, like, her pre-nup is really gennarus, ghennerush, jinrus, oh poop, I mean, like, she gets $25 million when they split, so what does she have to complain about, anyway? Donald doesn’t bother her anymore. He told me her ass and hooters are really sagging and he hates that, he says she looks like Hillary! My ass, in case you’re wondering, is really buff, Dear Diary! And my boobies, well, not too shabby, thank you! I’m one girl that takes care of herself.

Anyway, Dear Diary, that awful Muller asked me if I keep a Diary and I said no. It was just a little white lie so I don’t think I did anything bad. Do you? Mmmmwahh, love you Diary!