Get the Trump Outta Here!

Okay. I’ll just say it (because we all already know it): Trump is a dick, man.

I am not a journalist, nor am I writing to bring factual information about the election to light.

I am writing about humanity and common f*cking decency.

I was sitting at my local pub on Tuesday evening after a rigorous yoga practice, while scrolling through my facebook feed. An NPR article popped up that piqued my curiosity. It was about Trump and his audacious behavior, naturally.

Everyone by now probably has heard about Trump yelling at a baby for crying during one of his speeches. He used his typical lexicon (pure idiocy) to say it was “beautiful” that the baby was crying. Everything is beautiful to him. I think it’s one of 10 adjectives he knows.

He began by saying it was okay. I didn’t hear the speech, so perhaps his tone was sardonic. As the baby continued to do what babies do (not driven by their ego, but by their actual necessity for survival), he outright scolded the woman for sticking around with a weeping infant.

I’m not saying Obama’s any saint, but given the same situation, he probably would have gone out into the crowd and patted the baby on the head. I mean c’mon.

Trump surely wants that woman’s vote, and he’ll take it by figuratively grabbing her infant and smacking her over the head with it. Because verbally abusing and belittling people is how you get them to love you, right?

He’s that guy in high school who had no clue and said really awkward things during class. So unaware of the people around him or their feelings because of his own ineptitude to emotionally connect.

I’m not here to bloviate about the Presidential Election, because that is not my schtick at all, but what I do care about is how people treat others. For me to be writing about anything even remotely related to politics means I’m peeved.

I am frightened, like literally scared, that citizens of the United States can watch this facade and charade unfold in front of their eyes, where Trump has disparaged women and other races, stuck his foot in his mouth countless times, and with the grace of an ox, delivered inarticulate and platitudinous speeches, which not only scrape my ear drums, but make my stomach churn and my soul deteriorate–AND they still want to elect him President.

Do we really want someone who is nasty to others to be guiding our Nation?

What did we learn in preschool and Kindergarten? To be kind to others. To share. Not to use words that hurt. We teach compassion and the value of friendship to our youth, because it is the keystone to raising an intelligent, informed, and selfless society that truly wants to benefit all members out of a sense of responsibility that when one part of the tree is damaged, it needs nurturing, so the friggin’ tree doesn’t grow fungus or uproot and fall over.

In my honest opinion, no politician is appropriately suited to bring our Nation to where it needs to be. Politics, although necessary in the way we currently run things, are dirty. Trump, however, is by far one of the most ill-representative of what I believe the United States wants to be seen as.

Why would we pick a jerk to decide how to run things? We don’t like jerks, do we?

Trump was quoted at one point during his campaign as having said that he was humble; in fact, he said,

“I think I am actually humble. I think I’m much more humble than you would understand.”

This statement makes me want to douse myself in gasoline and light a match. It’s that painful that I’d rather blisteringly burn to death.

I wouldn’t want that person as my friend, I can say that much. Who wants to befriend someone who is that full of themselves? You can’t trust them, because they can only view the world as they are and how the people in their lives bring benefit to themselves. If I can’t trust you, I also do not want you running my country.

I don’t need to hear the particulars of his sloppy campaign speeches or know all the details of what he allegedly will do for us.

I trust no one to run this country without scruples and sincere compassion for others.

Love may not be able to pass laws or give us tax breaks, but if I am stifled by the mere presence of another human because their behavior and words have indicated nothing other than nescience, rudeness, and total disregard for others, then I can have no part.

Based on his reputation, as fueled by the evidence of his actual ignorant and arrogant behaviors in seeming perpetuity, I say that Trump should get the hell off the stage and relearn common decency. Maybe even redo preschool.

My Fight for Love

What is it?

Stringing madness. An inferiority complex. A clichéd, struggled kiss in a summer rain on a city sidewalk. Grandiose? Multi-syllabic.

A truculent desire to rip humanity’s vulnerability from their throats, which persistently mislead with humor and misdeed.

A gentle susurration pressed into my cotton pillowcase. A fear of flight.

No.

My fight for love is not poetic. It does not want to be noticed. It does not need to be spoken about. No monumental or maudlin displays.

It simply wishes to be lived.

How often are we stuck in a purgatory of stagnation? We come up with words like “saudade”, which means we long for something that has been loved and lost; a decaying, former lust. We pray for change. For society to wise up on its own. We plant trees in hopes of new growth. We remain obstinately optimistic.

But optimism and pride never delivered us to the doorstep of truth. Not once.

Words and feelings never have, either.

I’ve done this wrong my whole life. Pleasantly grateful for each opportunity to learn. Degrading my human worth based on the lack of others’ affection or approval.

Love is not about us, while being entirely about us. It doesn’t want to be praised or pedestaled so high it’s out of reach. It doesn’t want to be looked upon by sympathetic and horrified eyes like a beached and bloated creature.

It wants to be lived.

Caviling each other’s motives with complete disregard for their capacity to love. Commending our intelligence when we make decisions that break us from the bonds of romantic or familial anguish. The human condition.

To live love is to be love. Not to find it or create it. Not to write about it or decorate it. It’s not apocryphal like we believe. It is because we want it that we cannot have it.

Love has always been there. It just doesn’t fit the mold of our ego’s view. Askew in our perceptions, it is like the man who couldn’t fathom three dimensions because he lived in two.

It is not a decree of promise, nor recordings of random acts of kindness. Love is only asking that you stop talking about it and start doing it. To cease being a demimonde of lovers and become warriors of life. Proliferators of humanity and the ethereal cosmic entity that encapsulates our silly stories and lofty ideals. Not to be so serious all the time, but to know that the only reason why we all struggle with winning love is because we fight for it all wrong.

We get to choose how and why we fight for love. So many styles, all the while, some are successful, some needlessly tormenting. While love should be appreciated, it never needs to be more than in the moment, radiating floridly, with impression not intent.

If I am love and live like I am love, then I never have to find it. Living love is a fight each day when pangs of animosity and malign atrocities tear up entire cities, render human hearts to tenderized meat, pumping life through us we wish we didn’t have to wake to see.

But there’s bravery in living love, which is why it is a fight for which I will armor myself, will never give up on, no matter how many times I think I might.

A fight is only a good fight if it is done right.