I Hate Trump, Really Freakin’ Hate Him

I hate Donald Trump for all the usual reasons: his racism, misogyny, elitism, criminal behavior, inciting violence, undermining democracy, discrimination against LGBTQ+ people, corruption, war on the environment, lack of empathy, hypocrisy, attacking the free press, encouraging white supremacy, rolling back civil rights protections, abusing power, xenophobia, sexual misconduct, fostering political polarization, undermining rule of law, hostility towards immigrants, enabling hate crimes, undermining voting rights, attacking the judiciary, and promoting division and hatred — the list goes on and on.

I also hate him for stealing my faith in institutions and destroying decades-long friendships.

I hate going to bed exhausted from the daily firehose of bullshit and waking every morning afraid to turn on the news, to check my social media accounts.

I really hate the fact that he has stolen my love for being a writer. I have been a publisher for going on 14 years, and I used to love writing about women’s rights, the environment, and the LGBTQ movement.

Nowadays, it seems pointless because Trump is going to work to destroy or undermine any progress we might hope to accomplish in protecting all three — as well as other disenfranchised groups.

Trump and his motley crew of co-conspirators are caught in what I call a “Never-Ending Dunning-Kruger effect loop,” a group of misfits too stupid to recognize the level of their stupidity.

At the same time, I feel trapped in the chorus of a Rage Against the Machine song, endlessly shouting "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me."

What does this all mean? Who knows. Today, it means I fucking hate Donald Trump, and I felt like shouting it from the rooftops.

But here’s the thing: as much as I hate what he’s done, I refuse to let him steal my hope. I see people rising up, organizing, voting, marching, and refusing to be silenced. I see communities coming together to defend the rights he tries to strip away. I see writers, activists, and everyday people channeling their anger into action, refusing to let despair win.

So yeah, I hate Trump with every fiber of my being. But I also believe in our collective power to fight back, to rebuild, and to create something better. My anger is real, but so is my hope. And I’m not giving up on either.

Fuck it. I’m making a margarita. I don’t care that it’s only nine in the morning.

If this hits home, join my Substack for more raw, honest takes—and let’s get through this together.