I watched several episodes of SATC tonight to try to un-fuck my brain and remind myself that I live in NYC, not here. But, holy hell that show is unrelatable. If Carrie is blue, she buys shoes; I meanwhile spent half the day chasing down a $300 check from a freelance gig from four months ago, that may or may not come. Then there is the rotating cast of bedmates, I mean no, thank you to some man-child (looking at you M. Big) who uses his money and LIMOUSINE (really) to lure women into his ambiguity. But, yeah, to be honest, I haven’t been on a proper date

since I moved to Brooklyn.

Oh and don’t even get me started on the crop tops and Carrie’s unreal abs.

I’m left with the feeling that New York City has forgotten me, all the burgeoning energy is mounting just the same without me. Meanwhile, I’m here, in the land that time forgot.

The worst of it is, five episodes of outfits later, I’m convinced I need a whole new wardrobe and have no means to produce the funds or the lifestyle to condone one. Given the current state of things, I’ll have to settle for the archives of my mom’s closet — I’m pretty sure there is some acid-wash denim ready to be revived in there.