I love Hillary. And I love Obama. Fact is that I'm a polyamorous democrat—I see great strengths in each candidate, and I know, without question, that either one can lead this country to a better place. Some might call me indecisive. But I prefer to think of of myself as the Carla Bruni of voters—I have too much love to give it to one person.
But I'm sad today, because the third object of my affection, the man I believed would lead us out of this rich-getting-richer mess, the man who promised to stop getting $400 haircuts and instead spend our money and his influence getting America's poorest out of their misery, out of their Ninth Ward helplessness, the man who, more than our black candidate, understood that the country's massive racial rift will only heal when our socio-economic Grand Canyon is addressed, is out of the race.
It speaks volumes that he dropped out before Super Tuesday, rather than exert his power one last time to be spoiler or kingmaker. He had nothing to gain by this move. He wanted us to be able to choose who we want among the viable candidates, and he knows he's no longer one of them.
The other two are excellent options, and I'm excited about deciding who between them will get my sweet, sweet love Tuesday. But I lament the end of John Edwards's run. He's the real thing. He's my daddy. He's gone.
