This is a shocker, but I’ll admit: Donald Trump has done me a favor.
Throughout much of my life, I was terrified by death. That’s no exaggeration. The eternal nothingness. Forever black. Gone without return. No afterlife, no chilling on a cloud. Dead, dead, dead. Dead as a table. Dead as a tile. Dead. Dead now, dead 1 million years from now.
Fuck, I hated that.
Donald Trump, though, makes me feel better about death in two ways. First, one day he’ll be dead. Sooner than later, actually (That’s not a threat. The guy is in his 70s). And it’s a reminder that while he sees himself as this all-powerful emperor sent from the Gods he doesn’t believe in, Trump is just a wad of flesh and bones and intestines and fat. Lots of fat. One day he’ll die. Fucker.
Second, one day I’ll die. And I won’t have to wake up any longer and think, “God, we’re a fucking bunch of fucking helpless assholes.” No more fretting over climate change, over government rot, over rising seas and nuclear threats. I simply won’t exist, and with my departure will come the departure of angst and losing sleep and waking up to scream—mid-cold sweat—”HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO US!?!?!?”
So, again, thanks Donald Trump.
One day I’ll be dead.
One day you’ll be dead.