Most days, it's the same routine. I wake up in the morning and slowly open my eyes. See the soft, golden sunlight filtering through the curtains. Hear the cheep-cheep of the birds outside in the trees. Feel the warmth of my sweet wife lying beside me. Then my mind begins to click into gear and I think to myself OH SHIT, TRUMP, and I sit bolt upright in bed, which really hurts my back because I sleep on my stomach.
Fully awake, I climb out of bed and shuffle to the computer, guts churning, heart thumping, thinking, OK, what's happened overnight, please let nothing have happened. I check out The Age online and yep, a whole bunch of OH SHIT, TRUMP stuff has happened: lots of headlines, several opinion pieces, a big grinning photo in the middle of the page, or is it a bulging rectal prolapse, no time to look closer, feeling nauseous. I hurry to the bathroom and stand over the toilet bowl until the feeling passes, about five to eight minutes.
!["Oh shit, Trump!"](/web/20170204113047im_/http://www.theage.com.au/content/dam/images/g/u/3/h/r/4/image.related.articleLeadwide.620x349.gu43g6.png/1486165086729.jpg)
Dragging my feet to the kitchen, I make toast, a coffee, turn on the radio: there's more OH SHIT, TRUMP news, discussions, a soundbite of a grubby gloating voice. Feeling queasy again, I switch to a commercial talkback station because I'd rather listen to non-stop ads for pre-paid funeral plans – that's much easier to handle in the morning, and after a while, strangely persuasive too.
In the shower, I notice the soap scum all over the shower glass and that reminds me again, OH SHIT, TRUMP, then I carry on showering, with eyes closed. Getting dressed, I spot a pair of old orange undies held together by waistband elastic and primordial lint, and I get a sudden flash, OH SHIT, TRUMP, then I put on the pair of undies, because they're all I've got. In the hallway I stop and chat with my wife, filling her in on the latest developments: I say "OH SHIT, TRUMP!" and she says "Really?" And I nod, sigh, shrug, then head off to work, farewelling her with a chipper "OK then… OH SHIT, TRUMP!"
My neurological OST disorder continues into my work day. Sitting at the computer, I check my emails; one from Menulog advertising a "Mexican Fiesta: Let's taco 'bout it" deal, and just the word "Mexican" is enough to trigger a severe OST spasm. Another email is a courtesy notification about my online supermarket order: the Kleenex Cottonelle Gentle Clean White Unscented Toilet Paper 32 Pack is unavailable – and it gives me a massive OST jolt, yowch, that one jarred my neck.
Now I plunge into my writing, stopping regularly because of uncontrollable OST convulsions, usually set off by words I've typed ("gloat", "catastrophe", "Hornéd Serpent Of The Infernal Wastelands"). But sometimes they happen at completely random moments, for no apparent OH SHIT, TRUMP reason at all.
This horrific condition plagues me into the evening, yelping through the family dinner, twitching during TV news updates, until I collapse exhausted on the bed, letting out one final hysterical OH SHIT TRUMP SHIT TRUMPY OH SHIT OH TRUMMMMMMMMP, stuffing the corner of a pillow into my mouth so my howls don't freak out the neighbours. And then I'm spent, I'm done, I fall into a blissful, peaceful sleep, my body and mind repairing itself overnight, getting ready for the next long, torturous day. It's just how it goes now: I just have to learn to OH SHIT, TRUMP live with the torment.
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