Something happened inside his head. When he took his TV act on the road in the Republican primaries. Something unexpected. When, instead of ratings and reviews, he started getting cheers and votes. He hadn’t anticipated how great it would make him feel.
WHAT it would make him feel.
He felt loved.
Not feared, respected, merely tolerated because money could hopefully be made. Not used.
Donald Trump felt loved. Maybe for the first time in his life.
“They love me, Melania,” he told his wife as she packed her bag to get away. “Did you see them, hear the way they cheered?” Melania was gone and he looked for his pills. Reached for his phone.
Too bad his father wasn’t here to see this.
Donald Trump isn’t the first entertainer to mistake applause for love. To become addicted to that feeling. To think it’s real.
He isn’t even the first entertainer to occupy the White House. Bonzo’s scene partner preceded him. But Ronald Reagan had a square kind of cool. He never came across as craven.
This can’t end well.
randall smoot 