My dearest Donald, he of the many Trump towers,
We all know you are running for President of the United States. But do you realize you’re also running another campaign…to become the President of My Heart?
Donald, oh Donald. My heart belongs to you. I love how you’re unafraid to speak your mind, and that your opinions are an unending garbage stew bubbling up like ooze in the racist wasteland of your brain. Most people would find that as a glaring flaw, especially in someone running for our country’s most vaunted office, but not me. I’m into that sort of thing.
I respect that you don’t back down- just when everyone thinks you’ve finally crossed the line, you keep going, finding a more shocking, offensive line to cross. And I am just beyond that line, on bended knee extending forth my bleeding heart torn asunder from my chest.
I long to push back the flaxen spiderweb mound of hair atop your head, like a pile of golden wheat that has been flattened and dulled at the bottom of a much larger pile of wheat. I adore how your face turns redder and redder and redder the more inflamed your rhetoric becomes. I imagine holding you, spooning you if you’d let me, which you most definitely wouldn’t. You’d confide in me your secrets, your dreams, your innermost vitriolic hate for women and Mexicans alike. My heart feels like your face must have felt at the primary debates- a blustery tomato on the verge of bursting.
I imagine you as a patient and generous lover- we would make stinky, sweaty love until the sun rises over the penthouse of Trump Tower. I bet you definitely don’t grunt away for 30 seconds once the viagra kicks in then immediately order me to take a bath while you eat a full Kobe beef rare steak in bed using the Egyptian 1000 thread count sheets as your napkin.
You’ve got it all. And by all, I mean “of the money.” Truly has a windbag ever flown more high or more handsome? My love flowed hard and strong during the GOP debate- just like Megyn Kelly’s theoretical period. I’ll stand with you, Donald! Let me be your first lady of nonsense and mayhem. Together we’ll stand atop the Trump Tower White House, looking down upon the America we said we’d make great again, but instead we burned to the ground.
If love is a war, then I’m no hero. I’m the John McCain to your Vietnamese prison. For you, The Donald, have captured my heart.