Trump's Bluster Is Just A Lot Of Insecurity

I get where you’re coming from, Donald Trump; sometimes I can’t sleep, either. I’ll toss and turn, feeling anxious about something I’ve said that might have offended someone, or something I did that might make people think I’m a bad person, or feel the weight of an difficult upcoming task where my performance will have a direct effect on my future career (and even worse: my feelings of self-worth). I really hear you.

I’ve tried hard since the beginning of this bananas election cycle to extend a certain measure of empathy to all the actors in it, from “unhealthy penchant for privacy” Hillary Clinton to “it’s getting harder everyday” Marco Rubio. I’ve made an effort to understand what dire emotional straits someone would need to be in to want to support for president a candidate who kicked off his campaign by labeling all the immigrants from Mexico as “criminals” and “rapists” (which, it turns out, he planned to do ahead of time), let alone the things he’s subsequently said about women, Muslims, and others.

But it wasn’t until Trump’s overnight tweetstorm — and his weird midday defense of it — that I started to feel sorry for the man himself. Donald Trump: I see your pain.

It doesn’t take much scrutiny to see that Trump’s actions over the last few days are coming not from a place of strength or surety. A confident slandering misogynist would have refrained from getting in a media mudfight, believing that his callous assessment and treatment of a young woman with regards to her weight was somehow not morally bereft. A egoist certain of his fortune would not have felt the urge to assert on national television that he had money (and then claim that he wasn’t bragging). And a self-assured, loudmouthed hater would not have felt the need to defend his petulant late-night rantings with all the obnoxious gall of a hungover frat boy second-guessing what he did last night in the harsh light of day.

Strangely, Donald, you’ve finally earned my empathy. Don’t worry — this doesn’t get you my vote, not even close, but it does earn you my pity. If you're listening, I only have one piece of advice for you: Don’t become president. Not because I think you’d be a cancer on this country (though I think you would be), and not because I think your attitudes and beliefs of exclusion and division are thoroughly un-American (though I think they are), but simply because of this: Being president won’t fill the hole in your heart.

So get a prescription for some Ambien, don’t bring your phone to bed, and try and get a good night’s sleep. I’m sure Melania — and the scores of Americans terrified by the prospect of your sitting in the Oval Office — will thank you.