Jared here. Sorry about forgetting to tell you about my private email account, senators!

In general, I apologize if, on a form, I forgot to disclose anything about myself, or, indeed, everything about myself. I just have this condition where the second I am presented with a form for making disclosures, I lose all recollection of who I am, what I am doing and the meaning of the word “disclosure.” It sounds like something that a bank should do to a poor family. Boy, I hope I’m not poor! I assume I’m not, based on these cuff links I’m wearing, but I honestly don’t know! The second I was asked to supply information about myself, my condition kicked in.

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Have we met before?

I am not trying to be rude. It’s just that apparently I’ve met like a whole BUNCH of Russian officials, and I have zero recollection of any of this. Or, like, any income I’ve received at any time. Or most of my business holdings. Looking at my fine-tailored suit, I assume I must have business holdings. I can’t wait to find out what they are! I hope they don’t involve a complex web of business dealings with hostile nations. That could be awkward.

You know that thing where you can’t remember your password and the hint seems as though it was written by an entirely different person? I have that, but also for the email address itself and for having created the email. Do I have an email address? What’s an email address? No, genuinely, what is an email address?

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I’m sorry. I should have mentioned this to Congress earlier, really, but, again, the second I am presented with a form to fill out, my mind goes blank, and so does the form. Who am I? What am I doing here? Am I qualified to be here? Should I be here? Why was I chosen to be a presidential adviser? Do I have any expertise at all in anything? Good questions, all equally difficult to answer.

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Oh my God, I’ve been filling the form out with the wrong end of the pencil, haven’t I? Oops.

They tell me that this woman is my wife and that I am a senior adviser to the president. Senior adviser — wow! Good for me.

I would tattoo personal information on my hands for ease and convenience, but tattoos are lower-class and somehow I know that whatever else I may turn out to be, I am not that. I feel as though I own something made of marble, maybe a building. Or a boat, the kind with costly silent consonants in it. I bet I went to Harvard, whatever that is.

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Am I male or female? Well, it’s a 50/50 shot here, at least according to this form’s restrictive binary. Boy, I hope I’m male, just based on, like, society. I’ll pick one at random.

Have I been here before? Should I be talking to you? Who am I? Is this all a nightmare? Or, wait, am I a goldfish? Is there anything else I am failing to disclose? Maybe. Who can say? I certainly can’t.