Dear Diary,

Who could have anticipated this ISIS thingee, am I right? I was at the State Department for four years and the name never came up!

Whatevs. Love watching Obummer twist in the wind while the Hill-Dawg sleeps like a baby with an Ambien pacifier. When I'm in, I'll fix ISIS. Turns out my homegirl Huma has a half-dozen relatives plugged into the Muslim Brotherhood, and she says everybody knows everybody else over there. Say what you will about the Middle East, that whole Great Satan thing unites people.

That's all part of my latest strategy: I have discovered the pleasures of shutting up. While the rest of the Democratic Party blows smoke up Liz Warren's ass and pretends Barack's last name is Who?, I'm soaking up the rays in the Hamptons. (Only $33K a week--like I said, we have to watch our pennies, tee-hee.) Ol' Hill's just hanging, sending the pool boy for candy bar lattes and thanking God Bill's poking his bottle-blonde mistress instead of pestering me.

I've stopped worrying about Bill hurting my chances. The man could bang schoolboys on the nightly news and America would just say, "Look at ol' Bill, banging those schoolboys!" He's bulletproof.

Speaking of schoolboys, I must find some youngsters to plug me in to the youth vote. I'm thinking big stars like Jessica Simpson and Britney Spears. (Love that new song where she says "It's Britney, bitch." I use that all the time now, only I say Hillary.) And how about calling some of those boy bands the adolescent females love so well? Backstair Boys, 98.6 Degrees, New Children on the Block, and so on. Everybody knows the Serious Hillary. Now it's time they saw the Funky Fresh Hillary. (Also the Weeping Hillary, which comes in handy, lemme tell you.)

What if I faked a pregnancy? Thinking out loud here.

Had an off-the-record meeting with Nic Sarkozy the other day. My French is so rusty! Now I know: decolletage does not mean diplomacy. Merde! (Note to self: That one doesn't mean soup of the day. Now they won't let me back in Le Cirque for like a month!)

Can't get enough of that frozen yogurt.

Speaking of tasty treats, that Burger King thing really frosts my yoga pants. Taking your business to Canada because the taxes are lower? How unpatriotic! Well, that's not the word. Patriotism is so God-and-guns. You know what I mean. If it were anyone but Warren--well, any Dem donor, really, but still--I'd snap a few leashes over at MSNBC and let slip the dogs of war.

Whoa, I'm loopy on the appletinis. Or maybe it's the brain thing, who knows.

BRB--suntan break! Gotta flip, I'm done on the back. Better remember to re-fasten the bikini top or the Secret Service gets a free show! Oh, no, what if I forget? Tee-hee!

Your BFF,

Silly Hilly

The Super-Top-Secret, Extra-Personal Campaign Diary of Hillary Rodham Clinton is stolen each week by Lari Vine, the nom de guerre of an obscure playwright and screenwriter living in Washington DC. This diary is made possible by a grant from Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, who can afford it since he doesn't have to spend anything to rehabilitate his reputation after he says racist things about Asians and African-Americans, as the media buries them for him like the unprincipled lapdogs they are.