Thank you.

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I have to be honest. When Trump first got elected, I was not so sure about how he'd do. And then he took office, and from that very first moment, I knew we had something special. This is no mere clown, performing cheap tricks for screaming children, this is an artist. The way he delicately smears feces on the canvas of his own face, drawing silly eyebrows and Hitler mustaches.

He draws ire from everyone. Nobody wants to be close to him, for fear of being betrayed. He is, as he has said so many times, a snake, and we knew it when we elected him. But the way he snaps at the slightest provocation, the ways he finds to pick at his mistakes until they grow from small blisters to open, festering sores.

I didn't know this kind of joy existed. On that night, I imagine that Trump's supporters felt elated, brought on high, finally on even grounds with the rest of us. They did not know, could not comprehend, that their dream would slowly taken from them, right in front of everyone. In the end, they'll have been brought lower than before.

Thank you, Donald J. Trump. For going above and beyond in your act of self-destruction. For teaching us that a single salt mound could never compare to an endless ocean of salt. For allowing your ideals and dreams to slowly, painfully bleed instead of letting them mercifully die on that election night.