Dear Diary:

I don’t care what Mom says, I’m GLAD the campaign’s over, I’m GLAD! I didn’t WANT to be president anyway and someday I’m going to tell EVERYONE it wasn’t even MY idea.

She came by my room last night AGAIN and asked if I was OK, but I just rolled over and waited for her to go away. "I know you tried your best, dear … if it weren’t for that tangerine-colored miscreant, I’m sure … Maybe if your brother had …

WHATEVER.

WHAT. EV. ER.

I can hear them talking in the family room right now, whispering because they think it’ll hurt my feelings if I find out all they really care about is "the family brand." HA! Who left office with a 29 percent approval rating? Who turned a shitty little grudge-match invasion (always sucking up to Pop, W., ALWAYS) into a multibillion-dollar boondoggle? Please clap for THAT, fuckface.

How in the world did I let them talk me into calling our initial campaign strategy "shock and awe"???? Maybe I knew even then that this whole thing was going to turn into a world-class fecal flingfest.

Losing to that lint-dipped human gumball wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for Twinkie-toothed, shit-eating MARCO managing to stay in. I MADE HIM, Diary. I MADE him, from his 3-inch heels to his 1-inch forehead! I was the human growth hormone to his back-bencher political career! I was part dad, part bro, part Mr. Miyagi. I GAVE HIM A MAGIC SWORD. All the better to stab me in the back, I guess.

I let them talk me into so much. Spending millions in Iowa. Spending millions in New Hampshire. Spending millions in South Carolina. Putting! An! Exclamation! Point! On! My! Name! "It’ll generate excitement," they said. That didn’t work. "It’ll take the emphasis off, you know …" THE FAMILY BRAND???? Ha. That didn’t work, either. It was just a kick-me sign masquerading as punctuation.

I was looking through the online store earlier — because I hate myself and everything I stand for, and who do I even call to get that shut down??? — and those exclamation points don’t just seem stupid and mocking, they make all that shit just permanently useless. I bet Mom doesn’t even use the "Guaca Bowle" I got her for Christmas.

Also: "Guaca Bowle?" Did someone hit me in the head around February of last year, hard? Was I on new medication? There’s so much I don’t remember. GUACA BOWLES. I should send them all to Trump, he can use them for HIS WALL. Probably the closest he’ll get to Mexico paying for it.

Ugh. I can hear Columba talking in her sleep. She sounds like Ben Carson. THAT GUY, Diary. Makes W. look like Poet Laureate, and Cheney and HIS conspiracy theories sound like Carl Sagan. He’s still in the race. So’s Kasich, that old sour-faced moderation-hustler. He signed that anti–Planned Parenthood bill YESTERDAY and he’s still got the media SNOWED. Good for him, I guess. I texted him earlier, let him know I’d endorse if he promised to kick Marco in his tiny teenage cojones. He responded with "LOL," but I wasn’t really kidding.

I won’t even get started on that ferret-faced Cruz. He’s a lumpy mattress of a person -- the only reason he passes as halfway charming in debates is that he’s figured out exactly which buttons to push in the base. He picks his nose during commercial breaks at the debate. He thinks he’s being really subtle, like, just sliding his finger up beside the nostril. He thinks no one notices, but we all did. Kasich should do an ad on it. Nose-picking Ted Cruz, of the famous Canadian nose-picking Cruzes. I bet he eats them when he’s really sure no one’s looking. I bet he does.

I should get to bed. Got an early flight back to Florida later and Mom keeps passing by the door like it’s on the way to somewhere, but I can tell she’s just checking on me. Gonna wait till I’m sure she’s asleep and smoke a GIANT bowl.

A bowle, even.

Adios, Diary. Check you later.

Jeb (just Jeb)