Dear President Trump,

It’s kind of silly and it probably means I need a break, but I came up with some more “F” words to describe how you’ve been dealing with the threats to your presidency:

Fuss. Fume. Fabricate. Falter. Fake. Foment. Falsify. Filch. Fleece. Flounce. Flout.

I still think “Flail” is the best single word to describe your actions, but there are some other pretty good ones that round things out.

So here we are with you, the person installed as President of the United States of America, wildly flailing, fuming, fomenting, flouting, and fabricating (etc.) as you desperately attempt to save your political skin so you can go on fleecing us. It’s awful when regular old people respond badly to threats, but you have your special executive order pen to unleash and, even more frightening, you have access to the nuclear codes. Given your saber rattling towards Iran earlier this the week, the situation is very scary.

I don’t know how often this really happens, but I’ve heard that sometimes when wild animals have a limb caught in a trap, they’ll chew off the limb to escape. I doubt this increases their survival rates much since the risk of bleeding out seems really high, but I wish this was more your instinct. I wish that rather than visiting your freak out on us, you were inclined to self-destruct. That would put an end to your misery and it would save the rest of us and let us get back to the business of addressing the world’s ills.

It’s insane that we have to waste precious time and energy dealing with you, Vladimir, the feckless, complicit GOP, and the new messes you are creating while the planet continues to heat up, people continue to die and suffer needlessly, and democratic institutions crack under the strain of racist nationalism. We don’t have time for this. We don’t get to hit reset and pull the effects of climate change back or repair trust in our institutions or each other once you are out of office. We will be dealing with the toxic fallout from your administration for at least a generation to come. You may be sickly pleased with yourself on this, but there will be a cost even to you; you will never be able to look your grandchild in the eye and say you did the best you could to leave the world in better shape for her.

May we be safe from your flailing.
May we preserve some happiness so you don’t get all the best of us.
May we protect our health for the long haul.
May we be safe from warmongers with access to nuclear arms.

Sincerely,
Tracy Simpson