Month: September 2025

I’ve heard a lot of people say they hope Donald Trump dies suffering the worst pain imaginable. They want his final moments to be spent writhing in searing physical agony. And while I can certainly understand and sympathize with that desire, I disagree entirely. There comes a time when physical suffering becomes so intense that even the contemplation of death becomes a relief. The cessation of pain through any means becomes a wish, even a goal, and therefore provides some small respite from their agony. Dying, like a brief spark of hope in the dark, becomes something to look forward to. And I want Donald Trump to have no such comfort.

There is something, however, that the human mind has a seemingly infinite capacity for experiencing, and that is terror. You can heap fear upon fear upon fear upon fear, and soon the mind experiencing those fears does something truly fascinating: it begins to manufacture brand new fears of its own. Even more interesting is that the mind will go out of its way to defend those fears. Any logical argument casting doubt on the validity of one’s dread becomes a barrier to be deconstructed. The mind will violently rip down walls of reason in order to continue terrifying itself. Many of you have experienced this personally and know precisely what I’m talking about. And the most beautiful thing of all is that, unlike physical pain, unconsciousness is no refuge. The mind can just as easily terrify itself while asleep, and does so without the benefit of waking senses to mitigate the experience. Given enough fear, a person’s brain will create a resonance cascade of terror that can transform the entirety of one’s life into an inescapable nightmare.

So I don’t want him to die in physical agony. I’ve known people for whom the prospect of death was preferable to their living pain. And that will not do. I want him in just enough constant physical discomfort that he is incapable of rest. I’ve been there myself, and it is a miserable way to exist. And that’s precisely where I want him, in that hazy middle realm of ceaseless, throbbing, low-level pain. Just enough so he can never get useful sleep. And on that canvas of mental exhaustion is where I want the Rembrandt of his personal terror rendered. A portrait of ceaseless fear that will, before long, begin to paint itself. THAT is how I hope he dies. Afraid. I want his final days, weeks, years even, spent in a lonely, mewling, pleading fear which his physical discomfort forces him to experience. No peace. No rest. I want his mind to break itself in terror while he feels his body failing. And that’s the same thing I wish for every single person who supported him and put him where he is. I want all of them to die alone and afraid, weeping for a feeling of safety that will never come. And I hope it lasts for a very, very long time.