You’re going to break my heart, arentcha?
I’ve been hurt before. You know, that first rush of excitement, the butterflies in the stomach. The crazy hope that this time, it’ll be different. The nervousness of first blush, hoping I’ll see you on the news, on my homepage.
And then you walk into the room. You, the one I shouldn’t like, the forbidden fruit. And I want so much to introduce you to my mom and dad, but I know they’d disapprove. Heck, I disapprove.
We start the dance. That slow tango of getting to know each other.
You scare me. And it’s like a chill down my spine to hear you talk about positions opposite to mine. But you flash the smile and I’m blinded by the attraction- the historic nature of your candidacy, the popular support, the electoral backing.
It’s only later, away from you, that I remember what you actually said. And I’m angry and frustrated. You are not what you seem when I am with you. Picking apart you words, I see your meaning, your attempts to mollify me, your placating pat (or stab) on the back.
There’s that familiar feeling of betrayal. Knowing you’re telling me what I want to hear. Hearing from my peeps (CNN, votesmart, and the always entertaining Slate) detailed analysis of your hookups. And those hot tears of frustration come quickly from the place I’ve visited before.
That place where you break my heart.
Where do we go from here, Barack?