Dear Diary,

Don't tell anyone, but I'm in love with Donald Rumsfeld. Donald H. Rumsfeld is the paragon of manhood. He is a warrior for our times, a military strategist with the genius of Napoleon. He is a Machiavellian prince who is both feared and loved. And so good-looking! Oh, how I cherish the sight of that lantern jaw, those adorable specs, and that broad forehead cradling the biggest, most remarkable brain in existence. I wish I could get just a little sample of his brain, so I could fry it up and eat it, like the Celts, and maybe the tiniest bit of his formidable wisdom would be imparted to me. Am I freaking you out?

I know he loves me, too. I saw him give a speech once, and partway through his eyes came to rest directly on me. At that explosive moment, I was aware that he was speaking directly to me, that he was claiming me as his own. While his gifted oration went on, he fixed his glance elsewhere (so as not to make the other women jealous), but I could still hear his voice in my head like Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings, quoting Song of Solomon at me (I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine). My knees got weak, I swooned, and the rest of the waitresses had to carry me back to the caterer's tent. (They held those little sweet-n-sour meatballs under my nose until I revived.)

Not long ago, I discovered his poetry. (Every girl loves a poet, but Rummy is a poet with power.) I have begun an epic poem about him, too, and it begins with "I am stuck in the La Brea tar pits of your smile." What do you think, dear Diary?

Rummy, my love. When will you be riding into town on your white steed to collect your own true love? I long to dwell in the palace of Righteousness.

Love,

Karen