For six years we all tuned in and watched the lives of four glamorous New York ladies from our shitty couches. It fueled ideas of grand plans, sex-capades, and the fairytale that four women could somehow fucking get along and not bang each other’s husbands. Down that cosmo, ladies, because none of this shit is true:
1: You’re not a Carrie, Miranda, Charolette, or Samantha; you’re a slut.
I’m all for sexual empowerment. Own your genitals, RAWR, but don’t use some fakey whores ( or pseudo-whore in Charlotte’s case) as your vaginal inspiration to go out in search of strange dick. Basing your weekends on fictional characters isn’t just dangerous, it’s pretty fucking sad. And MOST guys don’t want to fuck pathetic unless tequila is involved. You don’t need Samantha’s approval to be a slut, YOU CAN BE A SLUT ALL ON YOUR OWN! Buy a dress a few sizes too small, find a local bar, and abandon any hope of the sex being good, ladies, you’re embracing your inner slut for YOU!
2: You cannot make it in New York City as a columnist. I repeat, YOU CANNOT MAKE IT IN NEW YORK CITY AS A COLUMNIST!
So, you spent your childhood dreaming of writing, worked hard in school, and now want to take the Bradshaw-challenge of trying to be a real New York City columnist. Don’t. For starts, that bitch couldn’t afford her apartment, let alone designer shoes, on a columnist budget. Maybe you have a sugar daddy who will supplement your meager $30,000 earnings? Great, you’re still never going to make it. Take it from me; you can blow half of the New York Times and still never see your work printed. Why? No one gives a shit what you have to say. Stay in your shitty town and work customer service.
3: Whore-couture is just a whore in overpriced shit
Dressing like a call girl is rarely attractive on hot women and never attractive on middle-aged whores. While club attire certainly has its moments (and by moments I mean when everyone involved is wasted), it shouldn’t be worshiped and embraced like a god damn lifestyle. A religion can be a lifestyle, dressing like Samantha Jones is a cry for help. Why not just replace that crop-top with the words DADDY ISSUES painted across your tits? Samantha wondered why professionals wouldn’t take her seriously, but dressed like she just popped out of a cake. As a large breasted female I admit to accentuating what I’ve got, but there’s a fine line between flaunting and flashing and Samantha often humped that line.
If you now find all your dreams dashed by the crushing reality that a television show wasn’t real, ask yourself why you had such shitty fucking dreams. I’m not asking you to aspire to be president, but do more than fantasize about trying to live up to four sluts exaggerated lives.
….And give more blowjobs, just trust me on this one.