I started an entry about how old I will be as of 9:01 a.m. tomorrow containing lines like “When Mozart was my age he was dead” and “I am twice the age I was at which I first had sex [solve for some value of sex]” but it just got more and more depressing and I was about to scrap the whole thing and start from scratch, but then I realized the one good thing that matters so much more than all the other depressing things:
Tomorrow I will be eligible to the office of President of the United States.
So I’m totally going to run. Obama and Clinton and Edwards can eat my dust. Kucinich will be my vice president. No, scratch that; Susan Sarandon will be my vice president. Madonna will be my Secretary of State. Christopher Hitchens will be my Secretary of Education. Or maybe Rosie O’Donnell? George Eliot will be my Secretary of Education; I’ll have the Supreme Court find a way around the she’s-dead thing. Jane Austen can be Secretary of the Treasury. I’ll eliminate the Department of Homeland Security and in its place I’ll establish a Department of Petty Revenge–oh, wait. Okay, my dog A. will be my press secretary. And everyone who has ever displeased me had better watch the fuck out.
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