Presidents, my wonderful prognostication abilities, karate instructors who spurn you cruelly

Ah, what is there to say about a life as nutty, bizarre, and lonely as mine?
I am taking karate lessons currently, and fell like a ton of bricks for my hunky twenty-something instructor. Naturally, after what seemed like a lovely bit of flirting going on between us, I was crushed to learn he appears to have some woman locked away in his attic. No, sorry, that's Mr. Rochester. Anyway, I listened to "Delilah After Dark", thus hearing the last nail thud sadly into my oversized coffin. Make that undersized; I ain't heavy but yes, he is my brother. What the hell does that song mean, anyway?
Sigh. I'm so wonderful and no one knows it. Blah blooh kerchoo.
In the meantime, I actually ordered basic cable so I can sit before my tele and absorb the going-ons at the highly touted Democratic National Convention. Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, Mickey Mouse, the resurrected Mickey Mantle? I don't know who the VEEP will be, but I hope that Obama chose wisely if he wants to win this thing. I find both he and McCain to be nauseatingly arrogant and underwhelming choices, although I applaud McCain for his service to this country. I applaud Obama for his wonderful speaking skills; otherwise I dunno a damned thing about the guy. At least I'm not sure why he's entitled to be president, but he sure as hell acts like he's got it sewn up already. Bad, bad, bad! Word to the wise, Obama: practice that humble look soon, or McCain is gonna send you flying back to Illinois, OK? And I think I'd take a Democrat over a Republican still, despite the fact that there now appears to be no legitimate differences b/t these two parties. Conviction soup for lunch, anyone? What happened to worlds that created Lincolns and Roosevelts and people who appeared to have PRINCIPLES??
Or am I just mad, in this rude, crude, hedonistic, self-absorbed, appallingly violent and media-driven age?
Not to mention - well, everything.
Huh. I feel better already. This online blog is my journalistic confession, the salve for my soul, the solace for my throbbing, aching heart. To be 36, female, and alone, is really gettin' on my nerves.
Paging Mr. Rochester. Oh, Jane. Oh, Bryonic, Teutonic friend o'mine, where art thou now?
You don't need to be blind to be unable to see. Let's choose our president wisely.
Lesser of two evils, anyone (again)?