ANNIE GUNN LOVES DONALD TRUMP

I love Donald Trump. He can cheat on me and I will still love him. He is a man. All men have weaknesses. I should know. I've fucked enough of them. For some it's sex; for others it's drugs; for my Donald, it's money.

"I need lots of money so I can contribute to more charities," he told me as he rendered me defenseless on Cuba Libres while he drank Topo Chico. "In my world we only respect each other if we stay rich. If I lose money, I lose respect."

I never thought the day would come when Donald would cheat on me by showering a streetwalker with his affections, but I've been around long enough to accept that men can't resist the charms of a prostitute, particularly when their own satisfaction is at stake.

"It's not about love," Donald confessed to me one night as we sat in his jacuzzi and I finished a bottle of wine. "It's about needs."

Men are confused creatures. Donald's spiritual quest is undermined by his instincts. I forgive him. A power greater than himself possesses him at critical moments and he becomes vulnerable to his lusts and the pin-ups cast a terrible spell over him.

Donald will come to his senses after he wins reelection. As he has done on many other occasions, he'll arrive at my door begging for forgiveness and understanding. I will forgive him because I understand him. For now and forever, I will always love you, Donald. The more you hurt me, the more I hunger for you.