“Like somebody sucked the life out of him”

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Have you ever felt the bitter acid of loneliness? Being lonely is not fun. When Covid hit, loneliness for many was especially pronounced. Reportedly, depression rates were much higher than normal, with good reason.

To feel so deeply alone is also scary. But you know what I love about the Democrat Party? Nobody is ever truly alone in OUR party. We work together. When democrats meet each other — in person or online — there is an immediate connection, a lightning-quick bond. This is why there are so many Democratic communities of wise people who love and support each other, including the Palmer Report community.

Donald Trump is lonely. How do I know this? Because the Donald has nobody, nobody to bond with, nobody to confide in. He is one. And for Trump, one is indeed the loneliest number. But Trump did it to himself. He once had friends. In fact, he had one really good friend. His name is Michael Cohen.

“Like somebody sucked the life out of him.” When Michael Cohen and Donald Trump came face to face in court recently, tensions were high. But apparently Cohen was stunned at Trump’s appearance.

Cohen told Salon that Donald Trump seemed “a shell of himself.” “He looked beaten up,” Cohen said. “He looked really disheveled and really just different. He looked like somebody had just sucked the life out of him.”

It’s true. These days, Trump is a pale version of himself. But think about Michael Cohen. He was Trump’s friend long ago. He would have done anything for Trump. We see how Trump paid him back. And it’s a travesty.

Michael Cohen will go down in history as one of the lucky ones. He escaped. He extricated himself from the Trump cult. And now he seems a lot happier for it. And Trump? The disheveled appearance? Looking beaten up? Part of this is his loneliness.

For Trump no longer has a Michael Cohen to listen to his rants. Trump is the loneliest number in the world – he stands alone, alone on the earth. All rational people have deserted him.

Of course, Trump is not skilled in self-analysis. If he WERE, he’d understand he did it to himself, that you cannot treat people the way he has and expect them to be and to stay your friend.

So here he sits, the loneliest number, the sad sack, the tragic and withering one, who is doomed to always walk alone in his waltz of darkness, unable to sustain normal human contact, unable to recognize the beauty of friendship and love.

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