Women of New York, listen up:
You are not Carrie Bradshaw. You are not Charlotte York. When four of you go out to a bar, you do not each represent a different character from a television show. Are you really this transparent? Do you want to be? Sleeping with a different man each weekend is tacky, and even worse, sets yourself up for a nasty visit with an abortion clinic and life-long therapy. You do not have to right to bare your midriff over the age of nineteen. And now that you’ve gotten me all riled up, might I add that cosmopolitans are absolutely revolting?
Look, I like the show, I really do. I think the writing is clever and I find myself relating to the story lines more than I ever want to admit. However, if I have to hear Sarah Jessica Parker do another voice over as the camera slowly pans around her $3,000 a month one-bedroom she could never afford writing a column for the Post, I will scream…
“That evening, I thought a lot about what the Subway Philosopher had said about Sex in the City. Were we all just characters in a Darren Star show? Were we trapped in a sitcom circa 1999?”
God, I hope not.