Tuesday, September 23, 2003

I just finished watching (and re-watching) the summer finale of Sex and the City. I don't want to give anything away, but *sniffle* I loved it. Miranda's storyline was absolutely heartwarming even to a cold-hearted senora like myself. Sometimes, I dream of having a "Steve Brady" of my own (sincere, successful, a kindhearted stooge), but then ... I realise how much more I'd rather be single. No responsibilities, no expectations, no depending on anyone. To quote Mel Gibson from Braveheart: "FREEDOM!!!"

Besides, it just doesn't feel right to ask a man (or anyone, for that matter) to buy you your collection of Manolos, Jacobs and Choos.

I don't like how couples are grouped together as one person once they're together:

"Oh, George is also coming."

"Okay, so that's another table for two."

Also, you become a walking stereotype and public spotlight hog, usually ending your 15 minutes of fame with an embarrassing cry-fest:

"I love you so much. I can't keep my hands off your body ... or out of your skirt, in public. You're my sinfully sweet pleasure toy. Mmm, mmm, tangy."

TWO MONTHS LATER:

"I can't believe you don't love me anymore! What went wrong? Tons of men wear their girlfriends underwear. I just so happen to wear them while in bed with another woman ... or two. You're not leaving me. You just try to step out of this 1995 Escalade. Come backkkk! Shee-it, whatever yo. She didn't dump me. I never even liked that crazy bitch."

Show a little class, stop groping the ass.

And you'll soon get the hint when 50 year-old, incest-bred, cow-dung sniffin', hotdog vendors start throwing their booze money at you and hollering, "That's disgusting. Go get some help."