G*damn you, SJP

Oh, sweet, sweet Sex in the City DVDs...I received five full seasons of you from cuarentayuno as he could not take them back to Mexico...and now I am yet again poisoning my mind, watching up to 4 episodes a night. I look at SJP, freelance writer, in her 30's, utterly chic in her Manolos and always looking fresh and darling -- and then turn mine eyes back on myself...sprawled out on my rickety futon, feet up on my dingy coffee table, belly full of dinner -- yet that does not stop my rhythmic spooning of ice cream into my mouth.

Am I wearing hip and adorable outfits?

No!

So I try to cobble something together...yesterday it was a purple scarf, tied jauntily just up under my tits. It looked good in the morning, but not so good later on. So I tied the scarf around my neck, then rode the T home, crammed in like a sardine, and sweating so much on my neck that I could feel it drip down my back, over my butt (tighter thanks to those coffee grounds!) and trail on down the backs of my thighs before dripping onto the bag I have clutched between my feet. Then I get home to discover I've been wearing two different earrings all day -- not on purpose.

Am I having sex with various and sundry loaded, gorgeous men?

No!

So I spend way too much time that should have been spent doing other things signing up for yet another online dating site...before realizing that in order to answer anyone who writes to me, I have to spend money...money I do not at this moment have.

Ah, me.