Dear Senate,

Based on the lunar phases, it is goddamn Day 236. You have still not voted on my fucking nomination, and I have been waiting on these god forsaken stairs outside of Congress—no food, no water, no gavel—since March.

My shit kids used to visit me twice a day. Now, I’m lucky if those bastards shoot me a message over AIM. My wife already remarried to some poor shmuck named Juan-Carlos. I only find company in this homeless man Craig that wanders over during frigid nights. I am always the small spoon.