I am a homebody; my home is my shelter from the chaos outside. I am afraid to venture outside and confront a sea of angry, mean, contemptuous and sullen faces. I even avoid making eye contact with my neighbors. When I walk my dog around my neighborhood I stare straight ahead, lest I notice the madness that might be taking place in my peripheral vision.

Even though I avoid people and seldom encounter anyone, as a misanthrope, I’m constantly troubled by a recurring face that unsettles me during the day and invades my dreams at night.  I cannot escape Trump’s ungodly visage, it dominates my social media platforms, cable news outlets, newspapers, and magazines.

Is it any wonder Trump’s ugly puss gives me the heebie-jeebies? His raccoon eyes bore right into my soul, his sphincter-shaped mouth spews excrement, his wispy urine-colored wig gives me vertigo, and his vagina-looking neck shrivels my genitals.

It is not just me; the entire nation is suffering from Prosopometamorphopsia or “demon face syndrome,” a rare neurological disorder where real faces appear distorted, warped, or frightening. Although it is just one countenance that kills our collective spirt, the monstrosity that belongs to Trump.

We will not overcome our existential dread of the demon face monster until it is six feet under.