It’s 2 o’clock in the morning and my phone starts buzzing. It’s Donald Trump texting me again.
“Join me in a private roundtable discussion with undisclosed supporters,” he writes (actually, he begs). “We’ll have a fantastic time and take a photo together.”
I silence my phone and roll over. I know I have a problem here; I just don’t want to think about it at 2:00 in the morning. The truth is, Donald Trump is fixated on me.
While he pretends to do an about-face (no pun intended) on mask-wearing or sends a vintage “Get Out of Jail Free” Monopoly card to Steve Bannon, he’s inwardly (and rather frantically) composing his next text to me. Sometimes he sends two or three in a row.
“The FBI is picking on me for no reason! Sleazy people are involved. It’s very tricky!”
“They say suburban women don’t like me; suburban women adore me! They can’t keep their hands off me!”
“They’re analyzing the pattern of my falsehoods in the New York Times!”
I’ve thought a lot about how the former president became fanatically obsessed with me, an anonymous citizen. How did he even know I existed, much less get my cell phone number? I can’t figure it out.
But, although I don’t know how Trump became obsessed with me, I do know why. It’s his panic about acting impulsively. He’s terrified of making a move without checking with me first.
“Should I order a pizza (without the crust) or KFC?”
“How should I deal with “Stop the Steal” in the 2024 election?”
“Why are they accusing my allies of breaching a storage room in Coffee County? No one should begrudge my hard-working team for taking a coffee break!”
I’ve tried my best to help but it’s all so overwhelming. How am I going to get Trump to forget about me and concentrate on getting back on Twitter? What’s in it for me, anyway?
You know how the thoughts you mull over at 2:00 a.m. can deliver a terrifying truth? My truth is the realization that I can’t fight this anymore. It’s too big. Also, the other 2:00 a.m. truth appears to be that if I contribute to his campaign in the next five minutes, someone (I’m not sure who) will match my donation by 500%.
The LED flash on my phone lights up in a silent plea.
“I’m hosting a sweepstakes-to-win once-in-a-lifetime private dinner with me. I am not allowed to disclose the location. Please enter immediately! I need you.”
This time I don’t go back to sleep.
