Trump's life has come to resemble an Arthur Miller play. The man who couldn't get through life without adulation of others. A man who, despite being wholly unqualified, ran for president because he was stung by the humiliation of a life of just almost not failing at everything he's tried. 

A man so shallow, he believed winning the presidency would be the answer to all his critics, the ultimate proof of his superiority over everyone. A man who, in his late 60's, can't even recognize that "when you get to the top, there's nothing there." 

On November 9, he'll be branded a loser on the biggest stage on earth. He will be a national pariah. He will retreat to his lonely, faux gilded chambers in Trump Tower, to shrivel and curdle, never having felt love, sacrifice, or the genuine glow of a life lived with and for others. To him, other humans - but *especially* women - are objects to be used and disposed.

The best part: he'll be beaten in the biggest contest of his life -  by a woman.