Those $500 Blahniks that you're rocking? They look hideous. Did you really have to pick out shoes with little flouncy puffballs on the front? No, they don't look "whimsical." They look like shit, because you have cankles.And that guy whose name you've been flogging all night, the one whom you refer to as "my Mr Big?" Please. Mr Big was a sophisticated, jetsetting, emotionally unavailable millionaire. "Your Mr Big" works for customer support at Bell South, and goes out to bars with his own Dolphins beer cozy.
I'm sorry. Was that mean? You're starting to pick at your hair extensions.
Maybe you shouldn't pound those Cosmos so quickly. After all, we all know that in a bit, you're going to announce to the entire bar that "Samantha Jones is coming out tonight." Then you're going to drunk dial your ex boyfriend to tell him that even though he was a lying, cheating dickhead who doesn't know how to love, you're going to do him the favor of spending the night at his place. Just to show him that you've moved on.And did you really just tell Cathy (who is clearly the group's Miranda because she's bitchy) that you're going to have "ex sex" tonight? Um, keep it on the DL from Marisol, because she is so, like, Charlotte - she only believes in true love. Marisol secretly thinks you're a slut anyway. But you can't stay to too mad at her. Four single, fabulous girls like you need each other to navigate the dating jungle of swingin' Wichita, right?
Finally, could you please spare us fellow diners the blow-by-blow of your "ex sex" tryst last night? I know, I know. That episode of SATC where Miranda went off on how disgusted she was by tucchus lingus was pretty hysterical. But your sex rant isn't. I know you secretly want everyone to eavesdrop on your girltalk. But Carrie had Hollywood script writers crafting her sex rants. You, on the other hand, have contracted crotch rot, and it's just not that funny, honey. It's actually on the gross side, and it's putting me off my food.So please, Amy or whatever your name is, ease up on the calculated sophistication. Look around you. You're not exactly in Manhattan. In fact, you're nowhere close to the Eastern seaboard! We're at a TGIF! In Kansas! Be proud and rock those mommy jeans. They fit your suburban hips so nicely. Order yourself a June Bug and extra spicy buffalo wings. Be yourself, and above all, remember:You are not Carrie Bradshaw.
