Donald Trump is drowning.
He's in over his head, and somewhere in the dim recesses of his addled mind, he knows it. He thought being President would be just as easy as being CEO ... which for him means someone else would do the hard work, and he'd slap his name on the end result.
He really doesn't know what goes into the empires that he's run. He doesn't know how to build buildings. He doesn't know how to get permits. He doesn't know how to hire contractors.
He doesn't know how to write a script for TV, or what a real executive producer does. He doesn't know how to educate people, or how to write a book. He isn't a cattle rancher or a textiles manufacturer.
He's a name. A name and a suit and a hairpiece. His only advantages in life are his family fortune and the fact that a lot of Americans currently find blowhard assholes entertaining. If he had to work for a living, he would be fucked.
Trump doesn't know how to be President, either. He doesn't know how the government works. He doesn't know the limits of his powers, or why a Judge on "some island in the Pacific" can just tell him "no."
He doesn't know, but there's noone to do the hard work for him. This is uncharted territory for Donald Trump ... he actually has responsibilities.
So he's scared and lonely and angry, and he reacts to that the way any manchild would. He mashes his red button, summoning a manservant with an icy cold soda pop, and then he sulks off to the living room to play video games. It's just that for Trump, the "living room" is a million dollar resort, and "video games" are "golf and classified discussions held in public settings."
Get a grip.