Ever since it became clear that Donald Trump was quite very likely going to become President, I, like “most of America”, became afflicted with an eating disorder. This resulted in a stress-weight-gain of… well… let’s just spit it out, approximately 15 pounds.
As the realization that “No! He is really going to be President?” sank in, so did my teeth. Into every bread-based object I could find. Pulling over and into In-N-Out, an almost automatically viable option, now that the world was coming to an end.
Next came the binge inducing “Presidential Tweeting”. Every misspelling triggering fried food frenzies I don’t really want to talk about...
Sadder, I knew what I needed to do, but the willpower to kill my Facebook page and Twitter account was too easily numbed by pastry.
And so like “most of America” I wallowed (and began to waddle) in my misery.
This continued until suddenly as if on a ray of CVS discount bleached-blonde sunshine, Kelly Anne Conway posed her now famous pose, texting God knows who (probably Bannon) God knows what (probably a nasty selfie), shoeless from the Oval Office couch.
With the sheen now momentarily taken off the Trump “Final Destination” car crash I had been unable to avoid staring into without a KFC drumstick in my hand, I quickly pulled up Facebook, and frantically searched for “Delete Your Account”.
“Hurry! Hurry! Where is it!” I exclaimed while glancing back at Kelly hoping she was still the fixed focus, I needed to save myself first, then humanity. Finally after what seemed like a long 15- 20 seconds, it was done. I sat breathless, in relief, and I swear, it felt like I could feel my belt begin to loosen like a 1/4 inch. Then a sudden panic set in. Like leaving the iron on as you pull out of the garage, but remembering the iron was next to the gasoline can that always drips, that was next to the leaky rusty Propane tank you never use to BBQ with. “I forgot to kill my Twitter Account! Oh God! Twitter!”
Chipping my fingernail on the trackpad of my older Macbook Pro, I got caught in a bookmark misfire, and opened LinkedIn by mistake. “Noooo!” I screamed as I threw the laptop down in slow motion, and lunged for my iPhone 7s Plus. Heart pounding now, I half-tapped the Twitter icon that I now noticed was always just a little too easily accessible from the task bar.
“I hope he hasn’t Tweeted!” I prayed as I tried to not let the screen “Update” and scanned the screen for the likeliest place to quickly kill Twitter, the Gear icon. After that was no help, trying not to panic, I clicked on Support.
After a few choice words for the founders and venture capitalists, and investment banking funders of Twitter, it turns out you can’t kill Twitter from your Phone, and have to do that online. So back to the laptop and with a vengeance now, that was surprisingly effective as an appetite suppressant, found the “Deactivate my account” unbolded text link. I’m going to go with 8 point. Thin. Waaaay at the bottom of the page. So as you don’t notice it easily.
And suddenly it was done!
I sat stunned in quiet contemplation. The world around me began to slowly come back to life. Actual real live birds, not the Bruckheimer CG kind, began to sing. The graphics of the life around me became suddenly awesome. Like 4k resolution. 8k! I could swear I could feel my belt slip another eighth of an inch.
That night as I sat watching the reality jungle survival while-naked series that Netflix “Suggested” for me, I realized 2 things. First how bad the Netflix “Suggestions for You” are, and for the first time since the Hillary “Deplorables” comment, I did not crave my usual mind numbing non-opioid pain killer of choice, a Medium-plus bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
I am happy to say that thanks to my self inflicted Facebook and Twitter intervention, I’ve been Trump-Sober for about 5 weeks and 3 days, and have lost 5 pounds. OK 4.
But you’re not supposed to lose weight too quickly.