How To Be A Real-Life Carrie Bradshaw
Do you like having sex with near-strangers? Do you like casually dating people until something better comes along, regardless of their feelings for you? Most importantly, do you have no concept of personal privacy, or respect for the privacy of people who pass through your lives?
Well, it’s time you stop just putting yourself at heightened risk for STDs and start making some money off of this untapped well of fame and fortune! Become a sex columnist and let the world know just how fabulous your life really is! If Carrie Bradshaw taught us anything, aside from the fact that men will still flock to you even if you’re a self-centered harpy stuck in a bridge troll’s scraggly body, it’s that writing about all the boning you’re doing is the fast track to the life you’ve always dreamed of.
I mean, let’s be honest, this is why you moved to the City. Why else would you suffer the filth, the overcrowding, and the near-dadaist rent levels if you weren’t looking to take an entire Princeton MBA class worth of dick — and then describe it to tens of thousands of strangers?! How else does one empower and distinguish themselves in a big City, if not by telling the City at large just how unimpressive Mr. Last Night’s penis was, and how you’re gonna settle for nothing less than 10 inches next time? Trick question — that’s the only way! The true mark of self-fulfillment and independence as a lady is being able to describe, with impunity, the exact duration and intensity of your last mediocre screw!
And to those who might protest, “But I respect my privacy and the intimacy I share with another person, no matter how fleeting their time in my life, and wouldn’t want to put that kind of a spotlight on something that my partner or I might be so self-conscious about. Just talking to my friends is fine for me.” I say — LOL ok Pope Benedict, why don’t you go get a chastity belt down at the Renaissance Festival and call me when you touch a boobie in 30 years. AMIRITE?!
In all seriousness though, what other profession would allow you to glorify your budding alcoholism, objectify the people that pass through your bedroom and your social group, and afford you walk-in closets full of the latest fashions? None! Why, throw in a promotional deal with a sex-toy shop and you’ve got what I imagine waits just behind St. Peter at the pearly gates.
And for those of you who are getting a little long in the tooth to be running around the City with your underwear around your ankles, those of you who have hit the snooze button on your biological clock so many times you broke your wrist, I say — no big deal! Carrie was doing this into her mid-thirties, and you, too, can wrap yourself in the sex column like a warm, fluid-covered blanket. You, too, can coquettishly mock the assembly line of dates you farmed off of Match.com — the ones who fall into the “Okay, yeah, I guess” category — as you suppress the knowledge that you would marry a tree stump if it had a 401k and a decent head of hair. You are a lady — there’s no reason you shouldn’t be viciously gossiping about your sexual conquests as you near 40.
Being a sex columnist is sexy, it is enthralling, it is empowering. It is everything you dreamed of as a little girl, having your tea parties with your stuffed animals as you criticized them on their outfits and told them the gory details of the boy you kissed at summer camp last year. It will provide you with limitless income, endless invitations to parties, and most importantly — a snarky justification for why you are still so very single. Sign up now at The New York Star, we’re waiting.
Note: Men need not apply, there’s already one Tucker Max and he is misogynistic and repulsive enough.
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