FOR REAL: A day in the life of Trump's Twitter habit

"FOR REAL" is a weekly place for Anne T. Donahue to gracefully rage out about politics, pop culture and the general insanity of being alive in 2017.

It's been said (by me) that every Trump tweet is a brick on the pathway to hell. But, after the President began unconstitutionally blocking critics on Twitter this week, we learned hell is less a final destination than it is the existing 140-character world he's cultivated.

Tweet by tweet, 45 has created a world ruled by hatemongering, retweets of The Drudge Report, and sentences With QUESTIONABLE capitALization. All at inexplicable times, and all with the fervour of a demon masquerading as a small child. Which is why it's not hard to picture exactly how the president of the United States decides to write his tweets:

It is dawn in D.C. Unable to sleep, 45 sits in his Trump Hotel™ bathrobe, flipping between two channels on network television. Confused by the Weather Channel ("Why is this woman wearing a blazer?"), he settles on Fox & Friends, transfixed by their use of block lettering. He smiles as anchors falsely report an upswing in GOP popularity before moving on to the latest sports stats. Believing this to be a direct attack on his presidency, he picks up his phone and condemns all scientists. He wouldn't have had to see this had the Weather Channel done its job. "THERE," he says out loud to no one, certain global warming can't be real if he can't see it.

Later, at Mar-A-Lago, Donald sits sullen in front of his day-old breakfast melon. He picks up his phone, launching several tweet attacks on the current healthcare system. "Never @ me" he texts to Sean Spicer, incorrectly believing he is tweeting. Alone in his car, Spicer swallows a single piece of gum.

In Donald's world — in a perfect world — no one would ever correct him.

In the Oval Office, the president eyes a magazine with Jared Kushner on the cover. He logs into Twitter and tweets about fake news until he has worked up a sweat. He puts his phone down. He looks back at the cover, and, heart racing, reaches for his phone and tweets a series of typos, all of which mean to evoke one large-scale nuclear war.

Ivanka asks what's wrong. He looks down at his phone, and picks it back up, chuckling about his "White House inside joke." He then tweets about being proud of his sons.

As his chopper takes off over Washington, the president looks down over the crowd below. He wonders which one of them is Drudge, the man whose reports always seem to align with his thoughts.

"Drudge isn't a person," Jared smugly reminds his father-in-law. 45 smiles to himself and nods knowingly. He picks up his tablet and takes to Twitter, sending no fewer than 126 tweets building on the anger that stems from being corrected, from being in a helicopter and not a plane, from not being able to meet Drudge.

In Donald's world — in a perfect world — no one would ever correct him. He would be surrounded by TV channels that "made sense" and showcased blazers only on men and celebrated his actions and his words. Because when he was your age — the president thinks, looking at the young helicopter pilot silently — there was order. No one talked back. No one was "over-sensitive." You could just "tell it like it was." Racism was "fine." It was "normal." "Xenophobia" wasn't a word. Women "knew their place." America was great. It was divided. The president couldn't be prosecuted for anything. Nixon tried his best. The Russians weren't so bad. The Cold War kept us on our toes. Nukes got the job done. The FBI knew when to step down. Jeff Sessions was still an apple doll.

Frowning, he picks up his phone. He tweets 14 American flag emojis before the words "WITCH HUNT" in all caps. He drops his phone, making it look like it was on purpose. "I want to meet The Fox," he demands to no one. "I want to meet its friends." Spicer types this into a Word doc. He wonders if the Fox's name is Drudge.

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