Sometimes I believe you are my only friend. Well, there is Donald, of course. But just between you and me, this is very much like favorite food being a cheesy American fast-food hamburger; you do enjoy quite a bit, but would rather not admit in public. And also, causes much gas.
So that leaves me with you, my friend, little girl’s notebook. I guess I shouldn’t complain, as no actual little girls in Russia have families who can afford a little girls’ notebook. Only grown men in high ranking political office are able to afford little girls’ notebook. It is important to remember the good things in times such as this.
I won’t lie to you, Diary, although it would be quite easy for me to do so. Not even a full dose sodium thiopental can get me to tell the truth if I’d rather not, as I’ve proven time and time again in my service to this great land.
But no, no lies here. I have cried myself to sleep for several nights over this problem. This could simply be due to the inferior materials and dyes that carry a medicinal fragrance in the pillow, causing my eyes to water so, but I do not truly believe this to be the case. My feelings are actually hurt. Feelings! Who could have known of such a thing, I ask you? And I have some of them, apparently. Amazing.
The source of my sorrows is this loathsome Bill O’Reilly character. Did you know, Diary, that even most Americans do not like this man? And they continue to like the human turd, Simon Cowell! But they do not like this man, this Bill O’Reilly. It makes you think, does it not, Diary?
This man, this man who has caused me much distress, and greatly hurt my feelings… he has done so by referring to me as a “killer”. No, Mr. O’Reilly… it is you who is the killer. The killer of restful nights of sleep, and the killer of the proud image of Russian’s great heritage. The killer of dreams, and of the romantic’s idea that one day our people can come together as one. But most of all, Mr. O’Reilly, you are the killer of you. But don’t worry, my men are good at what they do, and so you won’t feel a thing.
Thank you for allowing me to get this off of my chest, Diary. As long as you can continue to prove your usefulness to me, you will continue to live.