No offense to Stormy, but I consider it a minor feat that I’ve gotten this far in the book without mentioning her now–household name. But as we’ve come to learn, Trump has a way of wearing you down. He invades your habitat, like the opossum that gets into the attic, dies, stinks, and attracts derivative nuisances. Okay, it’s not a perfect analogy (for one, Trump remained very much alive). It’s probably disrespectful, too, to compare the president of the United States to a dead opossum—respect for the office, you know. I used to be mindful of these things. Color me worn down.
