On days like today I feel like Sisyphus. With immense effort, I heave the same stone up the hill, ever to watch it roll back down, destroying whatever and whoever is unfortunate enough to be in its path. It’s a dreary existence at times, and I find myself emotionally drained.
I can’t bring myself to write one more story about Donald Trump without my heart pounding in my ears and tears welling in my eyes. But then…I have a moment where my misery gains company.
New York Post columnist, and high priestess Branch Trumpidian Andrea Peyser, woke from her fever dream to a massive hangover.
“I can no longer justify calling myself a Trumpkin. I’m done with The Donald.”
“Here is a guy with the common touch but the attention span of a flea,” Peyser wrote. “He’s someone voters would enjoy having a beer with, even though he doesn’t drink alcohol. Can you imagine the torture of sharing a Bud Light with Democrat Hillary Clinton? But some of us smitten with his shoot-from-the-lip style have reached our limits.”
I had believed that there were no limits to the humiliation, degradation and vomitous lies that Trump supporters could absorb. I believed that once infected, the zombie virus that causes Trumpkins to follow their Master straight to the gates of Hell and smile while handing him their coats was truly incurable.
“Embracing the presidential aspirations of Donald Trump was, from the start, an exercise in magical thinking,” she wrote Monday. “In my heart, I wanted the smack-talking, hair-challenged, self-absorbed New York City billionaire Republican to nail down this baby. But in my head? Not so much.”
But then I see someone wake up from the Trump coma and my pain is somewhat comforted. I am not the only one with a hangover.
Trump has not changed. He is the same as he was 30 years ago, 10 years ago (when he was a Democrat), and one year ago when he set about being the biggest jerk in the free world, and proud of it.
Tonight I have a small amount of hope, in that if one person can emerge from the nightmare after having lived through Trump mania, then like a bad night of drinking the entire menu of bumwine.com, maybe more will awaken–with dry mouth and a pounding head, shuning the light and harsh sounds of reality–and depart from their stupor.