Chapter 1. Caviar Wishes, Metamucil Dreams
As a little girl in Slovenia, I had the same dreams as any child: to immigrate to America on a bogus “genius visa,” to model acrylic sweaters in a catalogue, and to meet a rich man almost twice my age and enter into a financially advantageous marriage with as little physical contact as possible. I’d have my Barbie doll flirt with a small boulder, asking the boulder, “So, you’re separated?” People would warn me, “Dreams don’t always come true,” to which I’d reply, “Yeah, like once I’m rich I’ll ever talk to you again.”
Chapter 2. Education. Blah, Blah.
I believe that education is critical to any person’s success in life, which is why I enrolled at college for a year until I realized I was expected to take classes, so I dropped out. Donald claims I speak at least five languages, although no one has ever heard me do this. But, for all you know, right now I might be yelling at my maid to iron my capes more carefully in Spanish or German or whatever French people speak.
Chapter 5. Early Days of Struggle and Cabs
While I was a very successful supermodel, I wanted to fully explore all of life’s possibilities, especially private air travel. I met Donald Trump at a party where models like myself, only not as pretty—I mean, not even first-two-wives pretty—could meet men who resembled rotting farm-stand produce. But Donald was very virile and handsome, by which I mean compared with Giuliani. We immediately started talking and discovered we had so much in common, like the fact that we were both talking. Donald asked for my number, which confused me, as my college education had not included numbers. Then it dawned on me that he wanted my phone number, which I didn’t give out to anyone without seeing a notarized bank statement, but Donald took me to the window and said, “See that? I own that.” And I thought, O.K., he has a falafel cart, but Donald said, “No, all those ugly buildings with my name on them.” And I asked, “Are you Donald Dunkin’ Donuts?” And he said, “I’m Donald Trump,” so I gave him my number and the next thing I knew I was living in a penthouse at Trump Tower and asking Alan Dershowitz to stop eating on the couch.
Chapter 28. My Vogue Cover
I was photographed in my couture wedding gown for the cover of Vogue, which was the happiest day of my life that did not involve Ambien. I’d achieved the pinnacle of my profession, because I could set a drink down on my own face. Of course, Vogue has featured every American First Lady on the cover, including Martha Washington and whoever married Steve Bannon, who told me he was a “shadow President.” But during my White House years I was never on the cover again, a scandal that I blame on socialism, something homely people use to feel better about themselves.
Chapter 271. Stepkids (Not Tiffany)
When I married Donald I acquired several stepchildren, or so I’ve been told. There are two boys who Donald pays to sit in empty offices and play video games, a sad girl named Ivanka, and another one who Donald calls “another one.” Some claim there’s a rivalry between me and Ivanka, and that she wanted to be the acting First Lady, but this is false. If I am asked to stand beside her at the rare events that either of us is willing to attend, I turn and say, “Hello, Lara,” just to watch her head explode. This is how I express affection without Bitcoin.
As for that other one, Donald neglects her; he once told me, “I think she’s named after a store.” So whenever I see her, through the window as she’s trying to pick the lock, I shout, “Hello there, Men’s Wearhouse!”
Chapter 758. My White House Years or Where Is the Gold Toilet?
Some people say I didn’t enjoy being First Lady but this is a lie. I just didn’t like having to remember the words “Ohio,” “welcome,” and “Karen Pence.” Mainly I focussed on the thought, If I don’t get another Vogue cover I’m not leaving my bedroom.
I was once cruelly tricked into visiting a children’s hospital, where I was told there was a sale on suède boots. But, no, there were all these children, who seemed sweet, but, of course, none of them worked at Vogue. I asked one little girl if she would like to hug my assistant, and when she said yes I watched with tears in my eyes, once the little girl’s Venmo had gone through.
In Conclusion, Because I Have a Hair Appointment
I’ve been asked what I’ve learned in my glamorous and book-worthy life. First, dream big, but two minutes of trying to pay attention on a convention stage is a very long time. Secondly, family is everything once the prenup has been renegotiated. Finally, life is all about love, not money or diamonds or Vogue covers.
(I just reread this last sentence, by my ghostwriter, and asked her to add the words “Yeah, right—on what planet?”) ♦
