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pen on paper: 'Dear diary'
Hello, human diary. It is I, Mitt Romney, your better.

My bus is a lie.

As you know, my recent adventures on Mr. Bus have taken me to various states, but it was the trip from Florida to Ohio that I had been most excited about. Surely, I thought, this would be among the more dramatic trips Mr. Bus had ever undertaken. How could a bus make it so far in only one-half day? It was an enticing challenge.

Sadly, I was not able to make that trip. My staff shuffled me off onto an airplane, and we went to some other state for an evening fundraiser—Colorado, I think? We were to meet with Mr. Bus in Ohio after he had made the arduous journey. As soon as I had arrived back, however, I felt something with Mr. Bus was amiss. A book was not where I had left it. The wood of the cabinets seemed to be mahogany, when I could have sworn that earlier they were teak. My staff insisted all was well, but I could not shake my concern. Merely traveling across multiple state lines would be unlikely to alter such fundamental interior design details as cabinet materials.

Finally, I remembered the clue that would unravel these mysteries. On the small built-in table that I use when on Mr. Bus to do various campaign-related activities, my scamp of a son, Tagg, had used a knife to carve "TAGG ROCKS" in very large letters, so as to inform the world about the state of whether or not he rocks, as so many of the children today are concerned about. Quickly I sprang to the table and looked, but the letters were no longer there. Also, the table was a different color. There could be no mistake: this was not Mr. Bus at all. This was an entirely different bus.

I was in a state of severe alarm. My staff tried to persuade me that Mr. Bus was fine, and that he had just had his various furnishings replaced during the long trip to Ohio, so that was why my son Tagg's name no longer was carved where it ought to have been carved. I pointed out to them, however, that Tagg had previously also written "TAGG ROCKS" on the entire undercarriage of the bus using a can of bright orange spray paint: Those letters, too, were missing. It was only then they admitted that my suspicions were correct. This was not Mr. Bus. Worse, it turns out there are multiple Mr. Buses. Worse still, our campaign does not even own the buses, but are merely renting them—as a commoner might do.

I no longer know what to think. I had always considered Mr. Bus as one of my most loyal staff members. But does he even exist? Where is the Mr. Bus I grew so fond of, so many weeks ago? Have we sent him to honk his horn at other commoners? Is he campaigning for some other candidate now?

I do not want to campaign anymore. This vice presidential unit is irritating. There is almost nobody among the staff who has acceptably fashioned hair or who is of satisfactory height. My opponent has started to say mean things about me, even though I am certain he is aware of my obvious wealth. I am so angry with him that I can hardly even speak about it.

I am tired, Mr. Dairy. I do not wish to write. I am even beginning to wonder whether my dream of paying little to no taxes is worth all of these trials, and I know that if I am thinking such thoughts, things must be very wrong. I am going to propose to Ann that we buy another house, perhaps a towering disc-shaped one with an underground car washing station like a farmer might have. Perhaps that will make me feel better.

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