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The Great Pretender

Yesterday I was talking to a person who doesn't know me very well.

We were talking about the upcoming election. 

The name Donald Trump came up, as you can imagine it would.

I mean, how could it not?

And we briefly talked about the Trumpster's obvious pathology. I mean, really, how can some people not see the dude is a classic narcissist? It's so clear. 

But maybe not everyone had a narcissist for a father, those lucky assholes.  

Narcissists are charismatic.  People are drawn to the persona.

 Narcissists spend an inordinate amount of time cultivating this image of themselves as special, bigger than life, smarter, more capable. 

Some people are drawn to the narcissist because on some level, they think the narcissist's magic will rub off on them. 

It won't, but I can understand the desire to associate with the gregarious bold bombast and bask in the glow of their accepting gaze. 

But, the narcissist always turns on you. You aren't going to be his darling forever and when that day comes, oh dear. Seriously. If you haven't lived with it, maybe you wouldn't know what happens next. But it ain't pretty. 

And so without skipping a beat in the conversation, my thoughts went from the Great Orange Windbag directly to memories of my own crazy-ass sadistic narcissist pop, lightning speed. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, with no segue, no explanation, I said, "Wow! I sure am glad my dad is dead!" 

And this look crossed my new friend's face; it was an expression that conveyed the listener's common decency. It was a look that seemed to question my humanity. 

What sort of monster blurts out during an amiable conversation, "Wow! I sure am glad my dad is dead!"  

So how did I respond to my horrified new friend?

Well, I laughed like a crazy lady. 

Because of course I did. 














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