I think I have Trump burn out. Nope, in fact, I do. I have Trump fatigue.
Too much Trump, Trump 24-fucking-7. Trump this, Trump that, Trump constantly clarifying, justifying, digging himself into holes, unapologizing, always glossing over and pulling the most unrepentant shtick out of his ass, over and over and over.
Trump always indulging in damage repair for the most silly, apolitical matters, like menstruation. Trump’s “best defense is a good offense” approach.
Fuck it all. I’m sick of all things Trump. I’ve spent way too many blog inches on him. I’m sick of it, and in fact, this will mark my final Trump installment until the day when it all goes bad.
And this can only go bad. You know, right?
The whole sordid Donald Trump national affair can only end badly. Dreadfully. It will.
I don’t know exactly how, but I have suspicions.
This American political episode cannot end well, and the inauspicious omens writ on our national psyche courtesy of his entrance on the grand political stage will be evil and dire.
Something is happening to our world. We are rapidly, exponentially, approaching a critical mass. A furious burst of solar-cultural flares that threaten to scorch this nation’s guts to the core.
Donald Trump. He bucks all narratives and this independence is both his allure and his emblematic foreshadowing of our great national impending tragedy. Donald Trump is the bulwark of our upheaval.
Shit’s about to get crazy.
Donald Trump’s narrative belongs to no one. It surely does not belong to me. He has tapped into emotions and deep-running currents of frustration that course through the American psyche. Trump has come to represent a sort of “supra-political” figurehead whose inflammatory no-fucks-to-give behavior strikes a repressed chord across much of our national soul. It’s not the immigration or Israel or the economy or race relations or the 1% or Social Security; Donald Trump is an omen.
He is the portent of our epoch. Much to his chagrin, if he were to realize it, this is hardly about Donald Trump. It’s about the socio-evolutionary leap we are experiencing at this point in human history.
This cannot, and will not, end well.
Shit’s going down and Donald Trump is the unwitting messenger. What better messenger than the man whose soul is so clouded in egomania that the message in his hands evades his vision?
I’m grabbing a big bucket of popcorn and sitting back and watching the implosion with voyeuristic relish. I’m done with Trump on this blog until such time that further allusion to his role in our epoch is unavoidable, and would be, in fact, negligent to ignore.