After a lot of thought and, ultimately, resignation, I have decided to support Donald J. Trump in 2016.
I imagine this will bother those of you who still have faith in humanity, you beacons of hope in this vast, unforgiving universe.
“Why?” you might ask, if you still, somehow, haven’t become a shell of a human being. “Why would you support Trump?”
You want to know why, person who hasn’t yet become a despondent shadow of his former self?
Because my spirit is broken.
I’m so tired. I’ve read countless editorials, opinion columns and investigative pieces that simply, honestly and accurately explain why Trump should not be the leader of the free world, why it might be a bad idea for him to hold a position of authority in our government, why he might be a hypersensitive, raving, narcissistic child with no real idea of how to fix the myriad problems facing our country. I’ve flipped through hundreds of pages documenting his many lawsuits, poor business decisions and general idiocy, pages and pages and pages of evidence that he should never be taken seriously or trusted with heavy responsibility. And yet, his popularity grows; his fans become ever more rabid; and my soul shrivels into a small black hole, engulfing my ability to resist and my will to carry on.
At first, I’ll admit, I didn’t get it. He’s not intelligent, charismatic, charming or attractive. If you close your eyes while he’s talking, it sounds like you’re playing a halfhearted game of Chubby Bunny with a racist 5th-grader. But I get it now.
I finally understand that to support Trump, you don’t have to agree with his politics or believe he’ll save America; you just have to stop caring, give into sweet release, and let the wave of dejected acquiescence wash over you like the incoming tide.
A Trump presidency will probably be unbearable for you unwavering angels of light who still believe that the voters will eventually choose someone else, someone who doesn’t sound like a drunk college freshman winging a social studies presentation the Monday after Christmas break.
Can you imagine seeing Trump’s face, tanned into an uncomfortable shade of blonde, every time you turn on the news for the next four years? Can you imagine hearing his voice, spewing incoherent, uninformed nonsense at you, over and over and over again for roughly 1,460 days?
I used to imagine it and cringe, when I still had a life force.
I used to find the idea of President Trump unendurable, horrifying. Now, I just take two sleeping pills and curl into a fetal position under my desk until all emotion and conscious thought pass.
Are you afraid of what might happen to America, not to mention the Republican party, if an entitled, tantrum-throwing cretin become its leader?
I was, too, when I could feel fear. Now I’m Frodo, exhausted, beaten down, desolate, lying on the side of Mount Doom; just drag me up the side of the mountain and throw me into the all-consuming fire of a future in which Donald Trump can make major decisions that affect my life. I have surrendered to wretched defeatism.
I used to get into arguments with people who like him because he’s “anti-PC” and “outspoken” and “arguably not a pandering, easily corruptible misogynist.” But then I realized that everything is pointless. I used to say things like “we don’t want this man representing America” and “he is not prepared or equipped for this kind of responsibility,” but now when confronted by a Trump supporter, I just lie down on the ground and play dead until they leave or the floor gets cold.
I have been worn down. I have abandoned all hope.
So carry on, America. Do what you want. Willingly march yourself into four years of a president who regularly gets into fights with strangers on Twitter. I will join you, like a salmon swimming upriver to its death.
I will spend 2016 wearing a “Make America Great Again” hat, quietly lying in the dark, waiting for the rapture.