I continue to suffer from post traumatic stress disorder, thanks to the current White House occupant.

It’s as though the world hangs in suspended animation waiting for some catastrophe to occur. And occur, it will. Again, thanks to the man in the White House.

The man who would be president had no business running for a position for which he is so obviously unqualified. There is no evidence of his Wharton education in his speech, his thought processes, his self-discipline.

Fortunately, I’ve not developed migraine headaches listening to his school boy speak. A seventy-year-old American president needn’t have the eloquence of Abraham Lincoln, or even Barack Obama, but I would hope the man would have learned many more adjectives and adverbs than…bad, big, and rape…and more pronouns than…me, myself and I.

Personally, I’d prefer it if the president tweeted exclusively so I wouldn’t ever have to hear him speak. His voice and his limited vocabulary grate on my nerves. In fact, my entire nervous system has gone into spasm. Once more, thanks to him. My sciatica went haywire, causing me excruciating pain. I’m sure it was his fault. My chiropractor and physical therapist are working to rewire me. So far, so good.

I should know better and stop listening to the news. However I do so in the hopes that I’ll get lasting relief, when that lying phony in the White House is sent packing.

The fact that the president and Putin are working laboriously to “pull the wool” over our eyes would be hilarious, if it weren’t, in fact, tremendously scary…should they succeed. They are working “hand-in-glove” to guarantee unimaginable wealth for the president…and unimaginable power for Putin.

I’m convinced there’s a Russian operative in the White House. And his name is…

…trump.

………hugmamma.