With each passing day, the Trump crazy train hurtles towards its inevitable derailment.
Nixon—for all of his paranoia—had the self-awareness and sense of history to know when the game was over; Trump lacks any of that. He replaces it instead with a superhuman ability to convince himself that his word is the truth and that his truth is reality. His is a life fueled by ego and the distortion of truth to his own benefit. There is no sense of place, there is no self-awareness; there is only his perception in that particular moment and, when reality—not the manufactured reality of glossy New York tabloids that sustained him but the reality of the world around him, of his past coming back to haunt him when he picks one fight too many, when he thinks himself too invulnerable, real reality—intrudes on that perception, all hell breaks loose.
It isn’t a question of if but one of when. In our last constitutional crisis of conscience, a paranoid yet self-aware and intelligent president resigned in disgrace; we have now only a paranoid tabloid junkie as we face this one. It will get far worse before it gets better.