Although I remain sickened, every day. That is, I haven’t gone numb and I don’t think anybody else has, either. I pay attention to what’s going on, to the facts of life.
But I’m sick of seeing him, seeing his family, his associates. I’m sick of hearing the voice, sick of reading the words.
Why? Because he does not in any significant sense exist anymore. He bores me, he is a nothing, not even an empty fat suit.
He is not a president, despite the fewer than 75,000 people who handed him the title.
He has shrunk to the size he was in my eyes before November 2016: an homunculus, doomed to be forever on the periphery of my vision — no, not even the periphery; the edge of the periphery — where he dances, yelling and waving his arms around to get attention. And not getting it, except from a tabloid mention now and then. You know, the good old days when Trump was a New York blip.
I’m sick of the whole bunch of them. They are good for nothing except provoking comments via sarcastic tweets.
They will be removed from center stage relatively soon, I believe. One way or the other. And we will quickly begin the process of repairing the damage this appalling, stupid creature has done, blundering around our government, knocking over the structures we have built over the past 230 years.
In the meantime, I turn the channel when that bulbous face appears, or mute the sound when he makes his pitiful attempts at speech, always repeating a few phrases over and over, sounding not like your drunken uncle at Thanksgiving but like somebody else’s uncle already in an assisted living program specializing in dementia. Out of the way, out of my way. No need to visit him; he wouldn’t recognize you anyway.
For some reason, perhaps related, all I want to eat is eggs.