In an effort to delude myself into living my best Carrie Bradshaw life, I'll be treating this blog like my weekly sex column. Except, it's probably not going to follow a weekly schedule. Nor is it about the Manhattan sex scene (not exclusively, at least).
Today, I'm starting with my overall internal quarrel. I've changed.
I'm still pensive and pretentious, but not over the same things anymore. I'm not my same academic-validation craving, pleasantly neurotic self. I miss deadlines. I don't think things through. I indulge in short-term satisfaction and when I think about what my life has become, I can taste the bile clawing its way up my esophagus. Wouldn't be the first time.
This summer was a bad one. I blame my control anxiety and tenacious self-loathing, but in reality, one extreme has indeed caused the other. I might be normal, but I'm not me. When it rained, it would pour, but at least a rainbow would emerge at the end. Now, all it does is rain with the illusion of a rainbow. I'm not sure that made sense. All I'm sure of is that I want to go back.
That's all. Thanks for reading.
P.S.- I totally believe Kim Cattrall's side of the story way more. But in my head, the 4 white bitches portrayed on the screen are all that matter.