I’ve come to the conclusion that the current occupant of the White House might be the most effective president ever. With an agenda to sow divisiveness among Americans, to pit us against each other, to hurl insults and foster hate, he’s been astonishingly successful.
Sadly, I’m a perfect example of his success.
There’s a house down the street and around the corner from me. I don’t know who lives there. They are flying Trump 2020 flags and their lawn features Trump/Pence campaign signs. And every time I go past that house I fantasize about throwing a brick through their window, or getting into a heated confrontation with the homeowner, or stealing their signs and flags.
What have I come to? I’ve never been a violent person. I got into a few scrapes in my elementary and high school days, but I didn’t like fighting. I didn’t want to get hit or hurt. But now, decades later, I play out these violent scenarios in my imagination.
The fact is I have no respect for anyone who supports 45. I have no empathy for those who want to tax the poor and help the rich, rather than tax the rich and help the poor. Who turn a blind eye to environmental degradation, who strut around with automatic rifles, who disparage immigrants and people of color, who think wearing a mask is a violation of their freedom.
I picture myself actually pummeling them, as if that would teach them a lesson, as if that would make me feel better. That’s how far gone I am. I’m as lost as they are, except I’m at the far other end of the spectrum.
I won’t do it, of course. I won’t get into a violent confrontation. But I can’t control my imagination, I can’t resist the fantasies. What I’m left with is a simmering, shameful anxiety. With feelings of rage and hate. It’s terrible to be this way. It’s unhealthy. It’s depressing.
Congratulations, 45. You’ve done well. May you get your ass kicked November 3.