I had this dream that Obama was my literary agent and I couldn’t get him on the phone so finally I just went to his house and asked Michelle what the hell was going on.

"Can you please tell Barack I’ll wait for him right here outside the door," I said.

Michelle said Barack couldn’t come to the door because he was out campaigning.

So I asked her what time she thought he’d be done, “campaigning.”

“He usually comes home very late,” she said, looking all Jackie Kennedy.

“Fine,” I said, “But tell him I’m going to bed early, so he better not call me after eleven.”

When I woke up I realized how busy the Obamas are and how I really shouldn’t have been so hard on them, and also how Barack isn’t actually my literary agent or even someone I’m likely to ever run into.

And yet I’m actually still a little mad at him.