I Don’t Do the LAW.

Well, I was chosen to be Trump’s apprentice, apparently…at no fault of my own. He asked me to accompany him on a shopping spree where he’d buy me pantsuits worth $13k. At the round table, I threw a fit because it was if he was asking me to give up who I was as an individual and to put away my art and writing. I blurted out something about the fact that “I don’t do the LAW” and “Not giving a shit about the LAW and that my writing and art are more important than his perception of perfection” in front of his entourage, telling them I meant no offense, I was just ignorant. I’m pretty sure Barack Obama was there, Ben Franklin and such, among them.

He then told me his son would be outside the window at 5pm to pick us up in his JEEP. Instead of agreeing, I threw an old skool school desk out the window, breaking the window’s glass, as to sarcastically save a spot for his son, like people in Philly do when it snows, with cones.

Selling my soul to the devil himself, I apologized and said I meant no disrespect to him or Martha (who?…I am guessing Stewart), but I am not giving up who I am. So he agreed to go shopping at a place more suitable (no pun intended) for my style. We ended up at a vintage bridal warehouse with tons of gowns worn by musicians to the Grammys. The hip, young store clerk helped me find crowns, socks that looked good when I took them off, and led me to a room full of bohemian-like dream sweaters for fall.

Then we hit the gym where he said he’d wait outside the waiting room window because he was the fattest man there. I agreed.

The next day, I walked down those halls in my princess get-up, floppy dream sweater, and diagonal paisley socks with high heels. I remember the solid click of my heels on the floor as I marched through the marbled halls like a true boss.

Then I woke up and the rest went to shit.

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