by Bridget Delbuono
It was November 2016 and the only person I knew who thought Trump was going to win the election was the man I was having an affair with. So I bet him $100 that Hillary would win.
But my secret lover clearly wanted to up the ante. He said, “If Trump wins, you have to do these new yogic breathing exercises I’ve been working on.” I’m not usually into breathing exercises or anything that makes me calm and agreeable, but I accepted, reluctantly.
I didn’t want Trump to win. I knew that if he did it would be the end of the world as we know it.
After he won, I met my lover in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town while my husband was away on business, and we went through his breathing exercises. I got through it, but how was I supposed to focus on breathing when Trump was clearly going to bring on the Apocalypse?
Afterwards, I went to a restaurant where everything was terrible, and I told them so. I swore I would never breathe again. Every breath I took reminded me of those breathing exercises I did with my paramour in that motel in the immediate aftermath of Trump’s victory. Sure, I could breathe, but what was it going to do to fix climate change or restore the global liberal order?
In my desolation, I gave up breathing altogether because I couldn’t deal with the way it made me think of Trump’s presidency. Now I’m dead, and it’s Trump’s fault.
Some people say you can’t not breathe because you’ll die. Well, they’re right. This is the world that Trump has wrought upon us.
I was alive in 2016, before Trump became President. Now, because of him, I stopped breathing and I’m dead. When will he stop this madness?