Hello, citizens of Trump’s America. It is I, Hillary Clinton, the person you wish you had elected president.
These past few weeks have been tough for all of us. Some of you are frightened of what the next four years will bring. You sit at home weeping into your wine and putting your fingers in your ears shouting, “I can’t hear you!” whenever the news comes on. I get it.
In some ways it’s even harder for me. Sure, I’m a rich white woman well beyond my childbearing years so, as hard as The Great Orange may try, he can’t actually touch me. Or my genitals.
But I’ve never before faced rejection like this. This is worse than when Al Gore ate the last of my Frosted Flakes and then called me “stiff” when I confronted him about it. Man, that stung. This is worse than when I failed the bar exam in D.C. and had to marry Bill, the ventriloquist dummy I used to run for president the first time.
So that’s why I have a favor to ask of you, future Trumplandians. Please, for god’s sake, stop asking me to selfies with you in public. Somehow you manage to find me anywhere I go: on a hike with my dog and my dummy in the middle of the woods, picking up a bottle of hot sauce from the grocery store, or buying signed copies of Trump’s books to send to Al Gore in hatboxes.
I don’t know how you’re doing it. Is this a hashtag thing on Twitter? A new meme? A gif? Was not our Joe Biden offering enough to satisfy you?
I’m with me now, capiche? I hope you liked watching me dab on Ellen because those days are over.
Please just let me watch this national horror story unfold in peace. No more selfies, no more thank you notes in my driveway, no more Friday dinners with Bernie. Let me be free.
Good luck in 2017, you hopeful dum-dums. I’ll be in one of my vacation homes. Don’t try to find me.