A Shakespearean Monologue by Donnie, Tragic Hero of His Own Imagination

(Where self-pity meets iambic delusion.)

Enter DONNIE, clad in a billowing cape of self‑importance, standing beneath a chandelier he definitely overpaid for.

O Melania, thou frost‑kiss’d statue of indifference,How cruelly thou dost gaze upon yon “other guy,” As if he were the sun itself and I but some dim, flick’ring lamp from a bankrupt casino.

He clutches his chest, dramatically, as though auditioning for a soap opera.

I have learn’d, fair Melania, that thy heart now beats for him —A man whose greatest virtue is simply that he is not me. A low bar, yet one I have heroically failed to clear.

He paces, sighing loudly enough to summon the Secret Service.

Thou seek’st another smile, for mine hath long been stretch’d upon my face like a mask of orange tragedy.We stand apart, thou and I, as distant as truth and my speeches. And though I claim it wounds me not, behold — I bleed theatrically!

He gestures to imaginary blood. It is very dramatic. And very fake.

Thy new champion shall speak to our children with gentleness,Whilst I, noble martyr, tended only to my kingdom of golf and grievance. He shall comfort thee in sorrow, where I offered only tweets at ungodly hours.

He collapses onto a chaise lounge he calls “the throne.”

We never had it all, sweet Melania — nay, we barely had the minimum.Yet still I proclaim, with tragic flair, that thou hast betray’d me by discovering my latest lie. A feat as shocking as discovering water to be wet.

He rises, trembling with self‑inflicted heartbreak.

Now we part, each to our separate fates —Thou to peace, and I to cable news interviews. And though thou hatest me, I understand — For truly, were I thee, I would flee from me as well.

Exit DONNIE, dramatically, cape swirling, ego bruised, dignity nowhere to be found.