I was going to write a story here, a fun little political romp, but the ideas are not quite forming right now, so it will have to wait.

Basically, the premise is “Fox News the morning after Donald Trump reveals himself to be the Antichrist on live national TV”.

Picture the Toddler in Chief giving a rambling and incoherent public statement suddenly saying “Oh, and just one more thing… ” then taking out a scary looking sacrificial knife with glowing runes carved on it and stabbing it into his forehead. That begins the process of him shedding his human skin, which falls off and burns, and now he stands before the world in his true form, which is a nine foot tall naked demon with screaming souls embedded in its flesh and a big ol satanic wang hanging out.

Why? Because it’s my story, damn it, and I am one lonely fag. Plus, honestly, it would make sense.  Like the spawn of Satan is going to worry about the freaking FCC and our absurd sense of “modesty”.

Also, to me, it makes the whole thing funnier. Your mileage may vary.

Anyhow, demonic Trump anounces that he is the Antichrist and that by electing and accepting and defending him as President, every Republican who voted for him has marked themselves as his slave and his property and will be devoured by him and shat out into Hell.

Because I’m not just lonely, I am one seriously twisted individual.

Then, of of course, we reverse angle to Fox News and a stunned Fox and Friends at a loss for a reaction.

Then someone says “I just want to point out that the never, not once, said he was NOT the Antichrist. But I bet you won’t hear THAT on the lame stream media!”.

Then somkeone replies, “You’re right, you won’t. In fact, I bet the liberal media will find some way to spin this as a bad thing. ”

And that’s where I run out of ideas.

I am sure I will come up with more eventually. But I wanted to get the ideas I had out of my head to clear way for the solution.

I’m in such turmoil lately. Large things are happening, or at least trying to happen, in my emotional landscape, and all I can do is stay out of the way like someone in Godzilla movie and wait for the giant monsters to sort out their differences.

Clearly my imagination is working fine on some level, at least.

I feel like I am (gross image alert) ready to secrete my poisons and spit them out into the world. To birth my pain once and for all and lay it out there for the world to see in all its ugliness and horror.

Well, better out than in.

What got me thinking along these lines was me looking around my room and pondering doing a major cleanup and imagining the place spotless.

And as usually happens with thoughts along those lines, a strange and disturbing feeling welled up inside me. A horrible feeling, like I am about to throw up or become incontinent or something. Like someone terrible inside me is going to rise up and come out and destroy me in the process, and it would be the most shameful thing possible.

Kind of like Trump shedding his skin, come to think of it.

Now, this is a strange thing to feel when contemplating something as simple and pleasant as a clean room. And it’s come up before when thinking about spotlessly clean environments, especially ones that are also very uncluttered, minimalist, bare, and visually very cold.

I giess that sort of thing triggers some very, very deep part of my brain that this imaginary environment to me is like a fire hydrant to a dog and therefore this is the place to offload waste.

And what is remarkable is the utter horror with which this prospect fills me. And yet, viewed abstractly, and grossness aside, it would be a good thing.

After all, I would be ridding myself of something truly awful. I would presumably feel a hell of a lot better afterward, and be better off for it.

So clearly this… substances, shall we say, represents something I have been holding inside me at all costs for a very long time. I can feel the tension in my soul of holding it in and how it has own grown more toxic and nasty over the years.

I am not quite sure what it’s made of, but if I had to guess, it would be shame, The sort of shame that comes from having been sexually violated at such an early age. The feeling that I am irrevocably dirty, disgusting, and awful (common in sexual assaulyt victims) and that if people knew what septic sewage I was inside, they would be so disgusted and horrified by me that they would reject me so hard that I would want to die because now I will never be able to fool anyone into loving me ever again.

Or something like that.

But, and I swear I am workinjg hard to keep the bathroom aspects of this as oblique as I can, but you can’t go forever without voiding waste. The waste would build up inside you and poison you and more and more space would be taken up by it and it would push against your organs and get more and more toxic till your entire emotional metabolism was dedicated to one thing and one thing only : containment.

And all because you couldn’t let go.

And truth be told, there is a lot that I have been holding inside for a long time. Far more than I am even aware of. And it is increasingly obvious to me that if I am to get well, somehow or another, I have to get all that stuff out of me.

But I am so afraid. And not just because I fear people will reject me.

Because I don’t want to come face to face with my foul and dirty shame.

Something like that could destroy a guy.

Worse, it might turn him into something he doesn’t even recognize.

And that would be a hell of a lot like death.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.