The first thing I do when I get up, here at 126 days, 20 minutes and 9 seconds….10 seconds…..11 seconds…..12 seconds…(well, we could do this all day), is grab my phone to see if Trump has blown us up yet.
That is, as he would say, sad. He’d be right (for once). It is downright sad. And I have to stop thinking about him so much. But is it even possible to stop thinking of someone who is changing the fabric of what’s deemed acceptable, of the kind of actions that are deeply damaging the lives of the very people who supported him, and who need support the most.
It seems when I write about Trump, I can never adequately get my rage and dismay out. I feel it deep in my chest, this pain of unvoiced concern that can’t connect with the right words to express my shock at the predicament we’re in, that such a person could really be the head of our country. I don’t know why that is. I don’t understand why I can’t cogently get my thoughts down.
Maybe I just can’t believe someone could be so heartless, so lacking in intelligence and humanity. Maybe it’s my disbelief that this could even be happening that makes it impossible to pin down in words.
Today I will be grateful he didn’t press “the button” by accident and that Mueller and the gang is going to be thorough in their investigation. I will live in the possibility that evil will go down, that wrongdoing will be outed, that the resistance is going to help rid the swamp of the monster that lives there.