If I never see that stupid jazz hands pose of his another day of my life it’ll be too soon.

My grandmother was a wonderful lady. Super accepting, cool as the other side of the pillow. She was basically the oldest hippie in Hippie Village. During her last year of life, she had severe dementia. Rather often, you’d find her in a state of panic because she didn’t understand where she was, who the people in the room were, why she was there…nothing. She’d become a fountain of tears, just bawling, “I…don’t…understand…”.

I wish this for DJT. More importantly, I want him to understand today that this is what is in store for him…that no doctors or fanatics or despots or gold-plated toilets can save him. I want him questioning his sanity at every turn over the next year…the people closest to him leaving him by the wayside, allowing vultures to hover around him hoping to take financial advantage of him by getting him to sign documents, all while he slips quickly into a state of mental decline, losing control of his bowels and his sense of self, little by little, day by day.

I don’t wish this upon anyone else, but if anyone deserves it, it is this motherfucking twunt right here.