Trump scammed himself. Unable to maintain his identity, weakly linked to reality on his best days, he has fallen for his own lies and is buying his own bullshit. Believing is madness, buying-in a catastrophe. We know from the study of the southern belle. Bellehood.
It's a role. You play a role. You play the game. Don't step inside it, for fuck's sake, but no one can accuse Trump of any sense. I defer to authority, Shirley Abbott, in Womenfolks: Growing Up Down South. The point of a belle is to become a lady. God help you if you fail.
Trump failed. Trump wanted to be prom queen. He got elected. He gloried in it. Things began to go wrong. Wrong by his standard, magical compliance with his every wish, Trump being infantilized beyond recovery. He felt disrespected. Heads must roll.
The stage of retribution arrives. Vengeance. Think of the movie Carrie. And the correspondents dinner, where Obama made fun of Trump. Everyone gets it at those things, but Donald is different. Très fragile. Trump fumed. He was livid. He brings it on himself.
Nobody makes fun of Trump! What a fucking idiot. We all must pay. So this is our country now. Watch the revenge scenes from Carrie on your own. Choose your version, it all burns down. This is Trump's story and the story of the south. The south wanted its dream.
They needed to live the lie. Failure was unthinkable. Failure was growing up, the end of a vile system, voluntarily or otherwise. Otherwise it was. Still, they never gave up. The presentation of purity and innocence masked astonishing debasement and corruption.
The USA now, with the monster, Trump, our embodiment and bastion of purity. He carries the torch. The scepter. He wears the sash, Miss USA, Miss World, Miss Galaxy, Miss Cosmos, whatever he claims. The magic wand of lies and corruption makes it real.
But it's not real. It's nothing but lies.
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