During my freshman year of college I lived in Boston’s North End, in an apartment that was so expensive I couldn’t justify paying for cable TV.  The bunny ear antennas could only pick up five channels, and only two of them came in color.  I had a choice between Spanish language soaps or the local Boston network station, so due to the language barrier I opted for the second one.

I used to watch TV to fall asleep, and the programming during my bedtime hours consisted of three straight hours of Sex and the City.  There are no words to describe how offensive this show is to every part of my being, but here’s a few that come close.  Hideous.  Trash — but like, having a landfill dropped on you from ten thousand feet.  Wrong.  Bad.  Is there word to describe the puke that Satan pukes?

First and foremost this show offends me as a writer.  The main character, Carrie Bradshaw, is a columnist and freelance writer for Vogue.  That doesn’t offend me.  Congratulations to Carrie, really, for getting a job in writing.  What offends me is her writing.  As viewers, we get little snippets of Carrie reading her columns every once in a while throughout each episode, and she basically sounds like what I think a younger Miley Cyrus would sound like if she felt like writing about shoes or sex.  This woman is supposed to be what, like, thirty-something?  Just try to keep your lunch down after this one:

As we drive along this road called life, occasionally a gal will find herself a little lost. And when that happens, I guess she has to let go of the coulda, shoulda, woulda, buckle up and just keep going.

Really, Carrie?  The road equals life metaphor? My cousin came up with that one when she was seven.

This show is also offensive to me as a writer who knows what other, real writers get paid.  Carrie never really details her salary, but she seems to be doing pretty well.  Too well.  She lives in a studio apartment in downtown Manhattan.  She goes out to drink with her crazy friends almost every night.  She owns thousands of pairs of designer shoes.  She writes a column a week and freelances for one magazine and she can afford all that?  No way.  Absolutely no way.  Not unless she’s secretly working for the CIA, and she’s just not even close to being smart enough.

Finally, the show offends me because Sarah Jessica Parker is, to put it politely, just not my type.  Also I’m pretty sure she was in my nightmares.  I really shouldn’t have used that show as a sleep aid.

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