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“This is not OK, I thought,” Clinton writes. “It was the second presidential debate, and Donald Trump was looming behind me. Two days before, the world heard him brag about groping women. Now we were on a small stage and no matter where I walked, he followed me closely, staring at me, making faces. It was incredibly uncomfortable. He was literally breathing down my neck."
"Literally" breathing down her neck...from three feet away. If you had any doubt that Hillary paid a millennial ghostwriter very handsomely to pen this in some Coffee Bean in downtown Burbank, there's your answer.
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"My skin crawled.”
Your species suffers from subcutaneous parasites, why are you surprised?
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Clinton continues: “It was one of those moments where you wish you could hit pause and ask everyone watching: ‘Well, what would you do?’ Do you stay calm, keep smiling and carry on as if he weren’t repeatedly invading your space? Or do you turn, look him in the eye, and say loudly and clearly: ‘Back up, you creep, get away from me! I know you love to intimidate women, but you can’t intimidate me, so back up.’”
"You're assaulting my femininity by standing three feet away and making a funny face, but I can totally lead the free world and put Vlad Putin in his place."
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Instead, she describes how, “aided by a lifetime of dealing with difficult men trying to throw me off”, she chose to stay calm, “biting my tongue, digging my fingernails into a clenched fist, smiling all the while determined to present a composed face to the world”.
Read that very carefully, and every day you wake up, thank God this crone did not and will never get within a fart's whiff of the White House again. We dodged the Bullet to Rule Them All. She would have made life hell for men in the United States.