I’m the president of the United States. No really, I am. Problem is, no one believes it—and it’s all the fault of the Russians, WikiLeaks, and Lord Jesus Sananda, the evil leader of the Galactic Federation. How can I claim my predestined place in the universe? Please help!
Look, despite what we tell our children, not everyone can be president of the United States. It’s a white lie, like “Santa Claus exists” or “Of course Daddy is your real father.” There have to be winners and losers, and if you’re the latter, it’s important not to add a “sore” to it.
Don’t worry, there is a place for you in the universe, dear, if only as a bad example for what corruption, greed, and delusions of grandeur can do to a woman. I’d suggest you pop some happy pills, stop playing the blame game, and find something worthwhile to do with your life. Cook something for your husband, maybe. You could even try to treat the people who work for you like human beings; I heard it can be rewarding.