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I Wish I Was Donald Trump
Margaret Emery

I didn’t think the daydreams were that bad until one night I found myself watching the E! True Hollywood Story of Paris and Nikki Hilton. Not only were two teenage idiots getting a biography for doing nothing, but they were being a bad role model for my future blue blood rich children who would one day inherit my fortune. My future children of royalty would have more taste and substance. This was the same day I went to the dollar store to buy toilet paper with a Ziploc bag of pennies. I didn’t know whether to enroll my famous, well off kids to private school or put them in public schools so they could be shabby chic.

The daydreams continued when I went home for a week to help my dad build model trains at the family business. As I tapped pipes and put crossbars and screws in baggies, I thought about what charities I would give my excess fortune to at tax time.

I decided on RAINN because then I would get to meet Tori Amos. I wouldn’t give to Habitat for Humanity because they bombard their donors with pamphlets. One of the places I used to work for did fundraising for Habitat; some people were called three times a night. The people who give to Habitat are always poor and swindled easily. And they all think they are best friends with Jimmy Carter. I might give to the Arthritis Foundation, but if I did, I would totally revamp the layout of their magazine, Arthritis Today. I hate that magazine. When my mom got me a subscription to it when I was seventeen, I started getting these things in the mail about wills and life insurance. Seventy-year-old woman in water aerobics classes were always the cover models. As if I didn’t feel sexy enough getting yellow white blood cells tapped out of my knee.

I think I would have to settle on Oxfam. They are the only ones who deserve my fabricated millions. They give food to hungry people and don’t send out address labels. I wouldn’t give to anything like United Way because I think umbrella charities get too big. The more focused the cause, the more likely it is that the charity will achieve their goals. A lot of flakes work for charities, and they don’t need any help looking at the big picture.

But I need to get realistic. Famous people probably pay off debts, so I would do that. I would payback the loan my parents gave me for my credit cards, and I would pay off my college loans. I would pay off any other debts my parents had, pay off my boyfriend’s debts on his car and school. When I was home, I asked my sister and her husband if they had any debts they wanted me to pay off. They said no. So I told them I would give them a lifetime supply of Dick Blick and build them a new darkroom. I don’t know if my brother and his wife have any debts they need to eliminate, but they are looking for houses in Philadelphia.

After all the collective debts are paid, I would buy health insurance for me, my boyfriend, and anyone else in my family who wanted it. Then I would have a big party. I would invite everyone, and if anyone needed money for a plane ticket or a hotel, they would get it. All of my friends would have limos to pick them up and take them home so that no one would have to be the designated driver. I would buy beer for everyone and leave big tips. I would never leave the fifty cents that’s always left over from my dollar-fifty Pabst at Gooski’s.

After the party, where everyone would know I was rich, then I would really start to have fun with my money. I would not buy myself a car because I suck at driving. Rich people can suck at things. I would have a limo. In my limo, I would go to the airport and buy a jet that only went to Canada, Columbia, and Libya. That way my family can travel and see people whenever they want. It wouldn’t be like a lame John Travolta jet. And there would be no racial profiling before boarding the plane. After that was settled, I would buy my parents a house in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, and my sister Lyla and her husban Jesse a house somewhere. I already said I would buy a house for Randall and Poala.

I would buy an office for The New Yinzer, and it would have DSL, a fax machine, and a bathroom. It would be orange, and everyone would have an office with a glass door with their names on it. It would also have printers that worked. That way if I lost my millions in the stock market or if I got sued for something stupid, I would still have employment.

I would buy a house in southern France or Morocco, and live near the monkeys in Gibraltar. I would feed the monkeys all the time. I would go visit Grace Kelly’s house, and if she had a grave, I would kiss it.

I’m not done yet. My friends Sara, Cindy and Liz have debts to pay off, too. So they would get that and healthcare and cars and a lifetime supply of groceries. Maybe I could buy them stocks or something so they’d never have to work again. I don’t know; we’d figure it out.

My crowning achievement would be to go to the jewelry store in Shadyside, Sterling Silver, and buy a peridot and jade necklace that I saw two years ago. It was $80 and very pretty on me. Sometimes I dream about it.

I guess I would buy new clothes. Since I would be rich, I would finally be able to find cool shoes in a size 9 AA. I would special order other shoes that I’ve never been able to fit into or afford, like Steve Madden shoes—my friends have a lot of those. Maybe I’d get Prada or Gucci heels like the characters in Sex in the City.

I would buy fishnet stockings because they look cooler than pantyhose, but I can never afford them. I would also get those thigh high things with those other things that hook the thigh highs to underwear. I don’t know what those are called, but I like them. Maybe I would buy fake boobs as long as I didn’t look cheap like Pamela Anderson. I would get a good haircut. I’d buy purses, a small black purse for fancy occasions, and a big black purse that can fit a resume in it without folding it. I know I won’t need a giant resume purse if I’m famous, but I’d still like one, just on principal. Then I would get the same small and big purses in brown because right now even though I’m poor and have weird feet, I still have shoes in black and brown.

And maybe I would try out contact lenses, since they now make those for astigmatism.

I would get my mustache and beard waxed. I’m not Frida and I don’t want to look like her. I would have tons and tons of plants. I would grow weed in my backyard. I would have beer flown in from Nova Scotia—Alexander Keiths—and Tim Horton’s coffee. I like pets, but I don’t want to be one of those lame famous people who have dogs instead of kids. Please. No doggy sweaters, no miniature Yorkies, no purebred German shepherds that wear bandanas. I would make my dog Daisy live forever through genetic engineering, and she would always wear her green Mardi gras beads from St. Patrick’s Day. She would also stop peeing on the floor.

I would be so fat, like Elizabeth Taylor. I wouldn’t go on any pathetic seaweed diets. If Donald Trump can be rich and have that horrid hairpiece, than I can be fat and eat donuts day and night until I have a heart attack at 35.

I guess that about covers my plan.

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