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The Paul Ryan Diaries



November 22nd
8 PM

For some strange, fucked up reason, I’m falling for Paul Ryan. A pregnant Paul Ryan. We met in Lamaze class. I know, I know. It’s wrong. It’s sooooo wrong. Ryan looks like the devil every time he pops up on C-SPAN. He’s got those cold AF Jack Frost eyes and a widow’s peak that (let me tell you) is not fake. December 3rd

10:20 PM

I regret to say I’ve started sleeping with Paul Ryan. I can’t help it. His wife is busy working all the time. The bedroom thing is pretty great. It’s nice to sleep next to someone at night. Cuddle.

If you must know, the sex is a bit like a game of twister. Or Jenga. I have 27 extra pounds. Paul has 70. 70 freaking pounds. He’s very sensitive about it. Apparently, Bernie Sanders made a joke about his weight gain. I saw the C-Span clip:

Bernie: Are you stressed about the election? You haven’t officially endorsed Donald Trump.

Paul: Mr. Trump and I have very different opinions about public policy. But I’m not stressed.

Bernie: Really? Because the way you’re going at those tacos, it’s like you’re trying to eat all of your problems.

It was kind of funny. But I can’t tell Paul.

December 10th
3 PM

Sometimes during the middle of ‘Twister,’ the Speaker of the House mutters, “method of conception.” That’s coo’. Everybody’s got a weird sex thing. But during our first joint climax, when I was closing my eyes in ecstasy, he shouts in my ear, “AYN RAND!”

Who the hell is Ayn Rand? Should I be jealous?

December 25th
11 AM

Can’t talk much today. In Rockville, MA. I’m waiting for Paul to finish his family Christmas in the city. It’s agonizing, bc he has the nipple cream and I need it.

My father has no concept of personal space. He keeps making me soup and cookies and putting his cat in my lap because it stands on my belly crest to lick my face. It’s gross.

January 12th

Today, Paul Ryan’s terrible wife found out about our intense love affair. She leaves him the day before Paul is supposed to be induced into labor (because he’s stupid and refuses an Epidural). God, what a terrible person.

January 13th
2:04 PM

I break into Paul Ryan’s room after his wife abandons her pregnant husband. The doctor says, “Paul has to push but he won’t.”

“It hurts! I can’t do this!” the Speaker of the House screams with his feet in stirrups.

I kneel down and whisper, “I know you despise affordable healthcare, sex ed, abortion rights. But god damnit, Paul. I love you. Even though you’re a Republican. So take the effing epidural.”

2:18 PM

In the hospital room. My boyfriend Speaker Paul Ryan is about to give birth.

“Chloe! I can’t take drugs, I have a birth plan!”

“The hell, Paul! Come on. Take the drugs.”

“No.”

“PAUL TAKE YOUR DRUGS OR I WILL SLEEP WITH BARACK!”

He takes the epidural.

January 21st
12:45 PM

It has been a blissful week since Paul and I took home our baby. Yes, our baby. His wife has not come back to take custody.

We’ve named him Tucker Putin Ryan. The middle name is my fault. Donald Trump came into the delivery room wielding a Russian transcript, saying he lost a bet. Then Donald Trump cried a lot. All I could hear was blubbering about ‘family values’ and ‘China–chi-na.’

Idk. My due date is next week. Yikes.

This story was written by Chloe Sell, who is a writer at Butler University.
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