Trump’s cruel joke was on us, but he’s just a punch line now

I don’t know about you, but I feel better. For a few days now. At first, I didn’t know why. I was just lighter in my walk. Whistling more.

Then I understood it. I think less of him. He takes up a lot less space in my brain than he has over the past four years, during which his stupid voice, his stuck up hair, and orange makeup (historians will be amazed that a society has ever taken in seriously a man who pancakes so much (orange stuff on his face every morning) and his ridiculously long ties to “hide” his ridiculously Brobdingnagian girth, not to mention his 25,000 lies and 35,000 assaults on democracy, squeezed my brain like a medieval instrument of torture in the Tower of London. There were times when it really hurt.

He hardly ever left. I didn’t say never. There were moments of joy with my daughter, or laughter at some really funny comedy, or tears of longing when I discovered a new YouTube video of a rare live performance of a song I loved when I was 20. But most of the time, most waking hours of most days, I would escape thinking about fiscal policy or the Battle of Stalingrad or the “Starman” agreements, and then, every 40 seconds or so … Trump, Trump Trump, Trump.

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