[Editor's note: A few more lost entries of Reagan's diaries have come to light. As always, dates have been redacted for national security reasons. Any hint that Reagan might have suffered from anything other than pristine logic during his two terms would undermine all governmental actions in the next century.]
In the hospital because some young man loved Jodie Foster too much.
Interesting to think I almost got the Robert De Niro part in 'Taxi Driver.' Funny story: I was governor of California at the time, forced to pay the usual lip-service to Hollywood by hosting a celebrity party at the mansion, then beg guests for money. Martin Scorsese came up to me. Of course I had no idea who Martin Scorsese was, so I asked him to bring me a highball. Which he did.
He then told me he'd written a script featuring a rugged, folksy young taxi-cab driver who sees how corrupt the world truly is and sets about trying to right the many wrongs. "Just like you," Scorsese told me.
"Mommy," I asked Nancy, standing to my right, "why is the bad waiter still talking to me?"
Long story short: Marty made his movie with someone else, and I got shot. This story is funny because, rather than push for gun control, I'm going to push for tighter restrictions on art and culture. That'll teach them to not cast me in a good film role.
[Editor's note: Martin Scorsese refuses to confirm this story, and referred us to Elizabeth Taylor, who also has no comment.]
Maggie is here! Right now as I scratch out these words into this diary, Maggie Thatcher is sitting in the Lincoln Bedroom, no doubt bolt-upright, considering the decor. Knowing Maggie's eagle eyes, she's already spotted the bubble in the paint (it's a small bubble, just to the left of the portrait of Andy Jackson), and I'll no doubt hear about it first thing tomorrow morning! That Maggie. She doesn't miss a thing, unless it's unemployed.
Earlier this evening a no doubt awkward thing happened, so I've been preoccupied with Mommy for a while, assuring her that her wifely duties are more than satisfactory, and that my husbandly intentions are more than sincere. What happened was, for a moment, Maggie and I were left alone. In the funny little room just off the receiving parlor or whatever--it's impossible to remember what each room in this damned place is called because they all have names. It's like looking at a map of the country--pretty soon, 'Alabama' just seems like 'that place down there with the voters' and 'Vermont' seems like 'that area with all the nuts.'
Anyway. Maggie and I were alone. I was telling her about the time I saved Britain from the Nazis [Editor's note... oh never mind. What's the point?]. "Mags," I said, "you have a lovely country. It suits your eyes."
"Oh Ronnie," Mags replied. "And the Grecian 5 in your hair quite brings out the soft timbre of your elegant voice."
I didn't know what she meant but I liked it, so moved from the chair where I was sitting to the loveseat where she was sitting, and brushed a hand against the soft curve of her mottled neck.
"Ronnie, don't," Maggie gasped, touching her fingertips to the area on her pale white skin I'd touched. "We shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what?" I asked.
"My brush doesn't need clearing," Maggie said.
"But maybe I could invade your Falklands."
Which of course is when Nancy came into the room. Such a misunderstanding! Maggie was forced to invade Falkland Islands on her own.
Sometimes I wake up at night and look at the woman next to me and ask myself, "Who is this woman with her sharp features and bird-like angles?" Then I think, "How does a nose that small produce such an ungodly racket of snores?"
Tonight, Nancy awoke as I stared at her. She asked me if something was wrong. I told her 'no,' but then I unburdened myself.
When we were done, Mommy reminded me to have the staff burn the sheets and replace them.
Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.
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