****WORLD EXCLUSIVE****
Shortly after Kamala Harris announced a new book about her amazing campaign for the presidency, a source gave me a copy of many pages from the galleys of the tome.
Over the next few days, I will be publishing here chapters from the book, which is due out September 23, and then the full outline.
In homage to Hunter S. Thompson, I will roll the chapters out serially, over time.
MANDATORY CREDIT: MARK HALPERIN’S WIDE WORLD OF NEWS CONCIERGE COVERAGE NEWSLETTER”
Chapter 1: The Elevator
There are 43 buttons in the West Wing elevator. I counted them three times on the morning I decided to run. Forty-three gleaming plastic squares, each one a portal to a sub-basement full of secrets, regrets, or fluorescent lights. I pressed “G” for “Gulag”—what we called the press office when the polling dropped below 39%.
It was 6:12 a.m., and someone had already spilled cold brew on the nuclear football. Not metaphorically—the actual briefcase. My Chief of Staff looked me dead in the eyes and said, “We’ll have to replace the football.” I asked if we could just tell people it had transitioned. She didn’t laugh.
⸻
The decision to run for President wasn’t so much a decision as a medical event. A thrombosis of ambition. A blood clot of destiny. One moment I was pacing in the Roosevelt Room practicing my “sincerely amused” laugh for a TikTok Q&A about mental health apps, and the next I was speaking in tongues to the ghost of Walter Mondale.
Joe had vanished. Not died. Not resigned. Just… slipped into a pocket universe somewhere between Scranton and senility. They found his shoes in the Rose Garden. Still tied. No footprints. Just a pile of Werther’s wrappers and an open classified folder labeled “VERY SENSITIVE – NO JOKES.” The Secret Service filed a missing person’s report, and the Democratic National Committee filed a lawsuit against reality.
It fell to me.
⸻
People think power feels like flying. It doesn’t. It feels like vomiting. But very privately. Into a platinum toilet you didn’t ask for, in a bathroom so large you can’t find the sink.
I had 107 days.
One hundred and seven chances to impersonate lucidity.
I learned that the line between “Commander-in-Chief” and “celebrity mental breakdown” is thinner than a CNN chyron. One morning I woke up convinced I was Angela Bassett. Another, I tried to ban time zones. For “equity.”
Ron Klain texted me the peach emoji. No explanation. Twice. I still don’t know what it means. But it haunts me.
⸻
My campaign manager, Julio—26, polyamorous, identifies as a sentient art installation—told me our strategy was “vibe-forward.” I asked what that meant.
He said, “We’re running on mood, not message.” I nodded solemnly, then spent four hours Googling “mood-based governance.”
In our first week, we lost Montana. Not the primary—the state. It seceded to join the European Union. Ursula von der Leyen personally welcomed them.
By Day 10, my approval rating was listed on Zillow.
⸻
And yet, I kept going. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Hillary.
Hovering like a thundercloud with a headband.
She whispered, “Win or die, bitch.”
And then she vanished in a puff of expired Chardonnay.
⸻
This is not a story of triumph. It is a story of motion sickness. Of beige hotel rooms and interns named Kai. Of crying on hot mics and clapping for things you hate.
It’s the story of a woman asked to save a country that couldn’t remember her job title.
This is 107 Days.
Hold your applause. You’ll need both hands to cover your face.
----
It was a Friday. Always is. The kind of Friday where you open your inbox and know, instinctively, that democracy has thrown up in its mouth.
I was Vice President of the United States, a title I wore like an inherited sweater—too big, slightly itchy, tolerated for family photos. I had spent three and a half years giving speeches that nobody watched, cutting ribbons at EV charging stations, and explaining to foreign dignitaries what exactly it was I did.
The President of Guatemala once asked me, deadpan, “Do you run anything?”
I smiled.
But now, suddenly, I did.
---
The elevator was empty when I stepped in, which felt like a metaphor even at the time. My phone buzzed. Julio, my campaign manager, again. I ignored it. The elevator doors shut with a soft sigh. I pressed “G.” It did not move.
CNN was playing on the little screen above the floor indicator. No sound, just a chyron:
**BREAKING: Biden to Address Nation, Speculation Mounts Over Reelection Plans**
The photo they used of him was old. Too old. From the first campaign. His eyes still had outlines then. Back when we all thought this was temporary. A one-term bridge to… something. We just hadn’t agreed on what.
Julio texted again:
*He’s doing it. Today. 3PM. He’s out.*
I stared at the screen. The chyron changed.
**Kamala Harris Seen as Frontrunner—But Does She Have the Juice?**
---
The thing is, we’d known this was coming. Of course we had. Biden was 82. He had more stumbles than statements by that point. Aides began pre-writing his speeches using algorithms trained on his 2008 soundbites. He gave the same anecdote about Amtrak 11 times in one month.
But knowing something is coming doesn’t mean you’re ready for it. You don’t prep for the Titanic to hit the iceberg. You just dress nice and pretend the champagne isn’t warm.
The real moment wasn’t the announcement. It was the silence afterward.
---
At 3:06 PM, Biden stepped up to the podium, flanked by Jill and the ghost of Democratic viability. His voice shook slightly. “I have decided not to seek a second term,” he said. “Not because I can’t win—but because I shouldn't.”
I’ll say this for the man: he always knew how to lie with grace.
By 3:09, MSNBC was already running retrospectives. By 3:11, the Atlantic had published a piece titled *“The Kamala Moment?”*—note the question mark.
By 3:13, my phone had 94 texts. Most were from people saying some version of “you’ve got this,” which is what people say when they’re terrified you don’t.
By 3:30, Julio had arrived at my office. He brought cold brew and a Google Doc labeled “POTUS 2025 — Messaging Reset.”
“Madam Vice President,” he said, “you are now the presumptive nominee of the Democratic Party.”
I looked up from my desk and said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s trending too.”
---
You’d think there’d be a process. A meeting. A ritual. There wasn’t. Just a void that needed filling and a party too scared to say the other names out loud. Newsom had too much hair. Whitmer too much Michigan. Pete too much Pete. Nobody wanted to run. Nobody wanted to lose. So they said, “It’s Kamala’s turn.” Like this was a fucking DMV line.
And I did what you do in this town when handed a disaster wrapped in a résumé boost.
I smiled.
I nodded.
And I said, “Let’s get to work.”
---
Work, as it turned out, meant sitting in the Situation Room 36 hours later trying to pronounce “Houthi” while aides explained how many aircraft carriers we had left in the region. Spoiler: fewer than we needed. More than we could afford.
I was briefed on the economy, which was technically “stable,” in the way that a man on fire is technically alive.
I gave a press conference. I thanked the President. I said “honored” six times. I did not say “inevitable,” but I saw it reflected in every journalist’s eyes like a dare.
---
That night, I went back to the Vice President’s residence and sat in the dark for a long time. My husband brought me tea. I didn’t drink it. CNN was still on. Now the chyron read:
**Harris Launches Campaign: “America Is Ready”**
I hadn’t said that. Not those exact words. But it didn’t matter.
The campaign had begun.
The trap had sprung.
And I was now the headline on a machine that needed feeding.
---
At midnight, I opened Twitter.
The top trending topic was **#PresidentKamala.**
Right below it?
**#GoodLuckWithThat.**
To be continued....
Shortly after Kamala Harris announced a new book about her amazing campaign for the presidency, a source gave me a copy of many pages from the galleys of the tome.
Over the next few days, I will be publishing here chapters from the book, which is due out September 23, and then the full outline.
In homage to Hunter S. Thompson, I will roll the chapters out serially, over time.
MANDATORY CREDIT: MARK HALPERIN’S WIDE WORLD OF NEWS CONCIERGE COVERAGE NEWSLETTER”
Chapter 1: The Elevator
There are 43 buttons in the West Wing elevator. I counted them three times on the morning I decided to run. Forty-three gleaming plastic squares, each one a portal to a sub-basement full of secrets, regrets, or fluorescent lights. I pressed “G” for “Gulag”—what we called the press office when the polling dropped below 39%.
It was 6:12 a.m., and someone had already spilled cold brew on the nuclear football. Not metaphorically—the actual briefcase. My Chief of Staff looked me dead in the eyes and said, “We’ll have to replace the football.” I asked if we could just tell people it had transitioned. She didn’t laugh.
⸻
The decision to run for President wasn’t so much a decision as a medical event. A thrombosis of ambition. A blood clot of destiny. One moment I was pacing in the Roosevelt Room practicing my “sincerely amused” laugh for a TikTok Q&A about mental health apps, and the next I was speaking in tongues to the ghost of Walter Mondale.
Joe had vanished. Not died. Not resigned. Just… slipped into a pocket universe somewhere between Scranton and senility. They found his shoes in the Rose Garden. Still tied. No footprints. Just a pile of Werther’s wrappers and an open classified folder labeled “VERY SENSITIVE – NO JOKES.” The Secret Service filed a missing person’s report, and the Democratic National Committee filed a lawsuit against reality.
It fell to me.
⸻
People think power feels like flying. It doesn’t. It feels like vomiting. But very privately. Into a platinum toilet you didn’t ask for, in a bathroom so large you can’t find the sink.
I had 107 days.
One hundred and seven chances to impersonate lucidity.
I learned that the line between “Commander-in-Chief” and “celebrity mental breakdown” is thinner than a CNN chyron. One morning I woke up convinced I was Angela Bassett. Another, I tried to ban time zones. For “equity.”
Ron Klain texted me the peach emoji. No explanation. Twice. I still don’t know what it means. But it haunts me.
⸻
My campaign manager, Julio—26, polyamorous, identifies as a sentient art installation—told me our strategy was “vibe-forward.” I asked what that meant.
He said, “We’re running on mood, not message.” I nodded solemnly, then spent four hours Googling “mood-based governance.”
In our first week, we lost Montana. Not the primary—the state. It seceded to join the European Union. Ursula von der Leyen personally welcomed them.
By Day 10, my approval rating was listed on Zillow.
⸻
And yet, I kept going. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Hillary.
Hovering like a thundercloud with a headband.
She whispered, “Win or die, bitch.”
And then she vanished in a puff of expired Chardonnay.
⸻
This is not a story of triumph. It is a story of motion sickness. Of beige hotel rooms and interns named Kai. Of crying on hot mics and clapping for things you hate.
It’s the story of a woman asked to save a country that couldn’t remember her job title.
This is 107 Days.
Hold your applause. You’ll need both hands to cover your face.
----
It was a Friday. Always is. The kind of Friday where you open your inbox and know, instinctively, that democracy has thrown up in its mouth.
I was Vice President of the United States, a title I wore like an inherited sweater—too big, slightly itchy, tolerated for family photos. I had spent three and a half years giving speeches that nobody watched, cutting ribbons at EV charging stations, and explaining to foreign dignitaries what exactly it was I did.
The President of Guatemala once asked me, deadpan, “Do you run anything?”
I smiled.
But now, suddenly, I did.
---
The elevator was empty when I stepped in, which felt like a metaphor even at the time. My phone buzzed. Julio, my campaign manager, again. I ignored it. The elevator doors shut with a soft sigh. I pressed “G.” It did not move.
CNN was playing on the little screen above the floor indicator. No sound, just a chyron:
**BREAKING: Biden to Address Nation, Speculation Mounts Over Reelection Plans**
The photo they used of him was old. Too old. From the first campaign. His eyes still had outlines then. Back when we all thought this was temporary. A one-term bridge to… something. We just hadn’t agreed on what.
Julio texted again:
*He’s doing it. Today. 3PM. He’s out.*
I stared at the screen. The chyron changed.
**Kamala Harris Seen as Frontrunner—But Does She Have the Juice?**
---
The thing is, we’d known this was coming. Of course we had. Biden was 82. He had more stumbles than statements by that point. Aides began pre-writing his speeches using algorithms trained on his 2008 soundbites. He gave the same anecdote about Amtrak 11 times in one month.
But knowing something is coming doesn’t mean you’re ready for it. You don’t prep for the Titanic to hit the iceberg. You just dress nice and pretend the champagne isn’t warm.
The real moment wasn’t the announcement. It was the silence afterward.
---
At 3:06 PM, Biden stepped up to the podium, flanked by Jill and the ghost of Democratic viability. His voice shook slightly. “I have decided not to seek a second term,” he said. “Not because I can’t win—but because I shouldn't.”
I’ll say this for the man: he always knew how to lie with grace.
By 3:09, MSNBC was already running retrospectives. By 3:11, the Atlantic had published a piece titled *“The Kamala Moment?”*—note the question mark.
By 3:13, my phone had 94 texts. Most were from people saying some version of “you’ve got this,” which is what people say when they’re terrified you don’t.
By 3:30, Julio had arrived at my office. He brought cold brew and a Google Doc labeled “POTUS 2025 — Messaging Reset.”
“Madam Vice President,” he said, “you are now the presumptive nominee of the Democratic Party.”
I looked up from my desk and said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s trending too.”
---
You’d think there’d be a process. A meeting. A ritual. There wasn’t. Just a void that needed filling and a party too scared to say the other names out loud. Newsom had too much hair. Whitmer too much Michigan. Pete too much Pete. Nobody wanted to run. Nobody wanted to lose. So they said, “It’s Kamala’s turn.” Like this was a fucking DMV line.
And I did what you do in this town when handed a disaster wrapped in a résumé boost.
I smiled.
I nodded.
And I said, “Let’s get to work.”
---
Work, as it turned out, meant sitting in the Situation Room 36 hours later trying to pronounce “Houthi” while aides explained how many aircraft carriers we had left in the region. Spoiler: fewer than we needed. More than we could afford.
I was briefed on the economy, which was technically “stable,” in the way that a man on fire is technically alive.
I gave a press conference. I thanked the President. I said “honored” six times. I did not say “inevitable,” but I saw it reflected in every journalist’s eyes like a dare.
---
That night, I went back to the Vice President’s residence and sat in the dark for a long time. My husband brought me tea. I didn’t drink it. CNN was still on. Now the chyron read:
**Harris Launches Campaign: “America Is Ready”**
I hadn’t said that. Not those exact words. But it didn’t matter.
The campaign had begun.
The trap had sprung.
And I was now the headline on a machine that needed feeding.
---
At midnight, I opened Twitter.
The top trending topic was **#PresidentKamala.**
Right below it?
**#GoodLuckWithThat.**
To be continued....
• • •
Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to
force a refresh
