You wake up for the last time in a plush bed, where you’ve spent many nights… er… thinking. You put on your slippers and feather-trimmed pink robe and you stumble into the bathroom, mascara running down your face and lipstick smeared from ear to ear.
You turn toward the bed as you hear the grumblings of another person. Oh. Crap. What have I done this time? You shake your head and crawl into the shower, after your bathroom valet hands you a bottle of water and some advil.
Yes, it was your last day as POTUS, and you partied like a God Damn Rock Star.
