[Ed. note: I wrote this based upon suppositions into Ms. Lewinsky’s character based upon her reported actions.]

I haven’t said much to this point. Can you really blame me?

I guess that this whole thing can be traced back to when my parents divorced. I was just a kid when they split, and although they still paid for my tennis lessons it just wasn’t the same. Parents like to think that their actions have no effect on the children. If they think that, why do they have children in the first place?

My Insecurity (I tend to capitalize that, apologies) caused me to eat.

A lot.

Despite my mother’s wishes. She put me on the Scarsdale Diet when I was 7 years old and there was no looking back. Not that the diets helped or anything.

My weight ballooned. I was the fat girl.

My high school nickname was ‘paperweight’. Naturally, that was bestowed upon me by the anorexics. Lucky bitches.

I sought recluse in the fact that they couldn’t think of anything more clever than that.

Eager for some male attention, due to the fact that my Dad was rarely around and my brother was a geek, I sought the company of my male upper-classmates. Sought a great deal of company. I can say in my defense that I always felt I loved them. Quality, not quantity. Doing it gave me power. I loved to see men writhing, wanting me. So what if it was just physical? At least they wanted my body, which was more than I wanted of it, so why shouldn’t I just enjoy it?

So I graduated high school, went to college and got a job interning at the White House.

I felt an affinity for Bill. We’d both “lost” our fathers (his from death, mine from divorce) at a young age, and we’d both battled weight problems for our entire lives, but he didn’t wholly manifest his power by sleeping with people — he was the President of the United States, for crying out loud.

I’ve never admired anyone the way I admired him. He dazzled me.

I always made certain to smile at him whenever he entered the room.

He noticed.

We got to talking one day and he took me seriously! What an incredible rush. When our initial conversation was over, I felt my heart beating rapidly inside my (heaving) chest. Here was a man I could get serious about.

So his job is really stressful and we’d play around. I can’t even explain what it’s like to kneel down in the Oval Office and take the president’s Executive Branch in your mouth, watching him as he leans back against his desk for support, moaning above your efforts.

He bought me presents, called me late at night for marathon phone calls, most of which left me moist and gasping. Any woman who doesn’t find Bill attractive, well, hasn’t had a three-hour phone call with him in the middle of the night. What a thrill to pick up the phone, half asleep in bed, and realize that your midnight caller is the leader of the Free World.

As tends to happen when one of the parties is 21 years old, things soured between us. I’d rather not go into why. I told my friend Linda about it, which was probably a stupid thing to do but I had to talk to someone and since she was so much older than me, I figured she’d have some practical experience to pass along.

Now I know that the only thing she had to pass along was tapes of our conversations to Kenneth Starr.

What a bitch.

So, I’m no longer welcome in Washington. The job at Revlon that Vernon lined up for me came crashing through the minute the story broke (so much for the advancement of women).

I’m 24 years old and my life is ruined. And he didn’t so much as ever get me off.

Bastard.