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.
