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Carrie Bradshaw syndrome.

I’ve been watching a lot of Sex and the City. A fucking LOT of it.

And it’s messing with the way my brain and sense-of-self function.

The symptoms:

I find that I’m siting in the window of my apartment on my laptop, typing out the answers to the week’s questions: Will blogs ever be read by the people you write them for? Can you ever walk around on a Saturday morning without being crammed off the sidewalk by two-tier strollers? Why do razors cost so much more money when they’re pink? What if all this social media, web 2.0  stuff is bullshit?

As if someone wants to know the answers…
When I talk to my girlfriends over breakfast the next day, they don’t even try to offer witty one-liners or crisp commentary.
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In my pseudo-anthropological quest to make sense of modern technical-sexual mores, I find that it’s all in my head.

Where’s my heavy head of curly blond and washboard abs on a 5’2 frame?
Why doesn’t any one listen when I leave work, narrating “That night, on the Upper East side.”

A quick google search reassured me that I wasn’t the only one with Carrie Bradshaw syndrome.

The truth is I thought I came to terms with women in the media when I realized they all had personal trainers, hair and make up artists and assistants but I’ve come to understand that it is easy  to be  brainwashed, like so many women before me, into believing that the fantastical, carefully constructed life of Carrie Bradshaw is a viable option.
It all makes me wonder…

Am I a little too narcissistically co-dependent on the lives of these women characters for lack of other options?
Do men fee like a modern day Don Draper?

Is this syndrome covered under health insurance?

…and here we go again with the questions.

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