Confessions of the Trump Deranged

I have Trump Derangement Syndrome. I realized this the other day while out on a jog through uptown Charlotte, where I live. I was jogging and thinking about Trump. I do many things during the day, like jogging, but I am always thinking about Trump. He is always there, lurking along the fringes of my mind, a lurid presence that I am unable to escape. 

I was jogging through uptown when a Toyota Camry that was covered in Trump bumper stickers drove past me. There was a huge “MAGA” graphic covering the back windshield, and a full-sized “TRUMP 2020” flag attached the roof, billowing in the wind. It was a strange sight.

It was a strange sight because Charlotte is a liberal city, a blue enclave surrounded by the hostile Red Sea that is North Carolina. People here, if they like Trump, tend to keep that information to themselves. It is not posh to like Trump. People in breweries will look at you funny if you say that you voted for him. People do not wear MAGA hats here. The city council voted this week to condemn Trump’s attacks against AOC and her Squad – a blurb that is only newsworthy as Charlotte is slated to host the Republican National Convention next July.

I saw this car and I thought maybe if it pulled over or stopped at a light near where I was standing, that I should go and smash one of the windows. This would be wrong, of course. The illegal destruction of property, and surely I would be arrested or at the very least, find myself in a physical alteration with someone. But that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to smash the windows of the Trump car. 

I wanted to smash the windows and then stare threateningly at the shocked face of whoever was driving that car. He would stare back at me, bewildered, stunned by this turn of events, the circumstance taking several moments to even process. He would then yell some profanity, perhaps lunge out of the car after me, as confused onlookers speculated as to what was happening. He would be furious, livid, but part of him would also be overjoyed, orgasmic at finally becoming a victim. 

The Facebook post had been planned months, years in advance, saved as a draft in his mind with slight alterations made every few weeks. The words have been boiling for a while now, toxic, bursting at the seams. He has been dying for this to happen. It is all he has ever wanted, really. For some hypocritical, Trump-deranged liberal to commit an act of tangible violence against him. Some punk, some Antifa criminal, the crazed, psychotic Democratic voter that his television and radio warned him about. 

I would smash his window, and it would be the greatest gift he had ever received. Decades from now, assuming Civilization still exists, he would still be talking about the incident, exaggerating the details to anyone who will listen, and making sure to reference this traumatic experience on Facebook, which will absolutely still exist, Civilization or not, at each and every opportunity. 

Me smashing his window would, in many ways, come to be the defining moment of this man’s life. The ultimate validation of his beliefs. Any doubts he possessed about the possible existence of decency in the Other Side would instantly evaporate. He would be sure, with absolute conviction and righteous fury, that he was on the Right Side. In this war, the war being fought across Twitter lines and CNN panels, he was one of the good guys. 

I didn’t smash his windows because the car drove past and also because that would obviously be a ridiculous thing to do. But the sensation of wanting to smash the windows, to assault this absurd display of Trumpism, was a new experience for me. I am not a particularly violent person. I consider myself to generally be calm and reasonable. But man, I wanted to fuck those windows up.