I can’t believe it. I’m going to have to do it. I’m going to have to classify yet ANOTHER kind of chick lit. This is getting ridiculous. But I can’t escape it… there’s just no way out of it… here’s Type Eleven, into which category this book very snugly settles:
Type 11: Sex In The City. There is not much to say about this kind of book/movie/tv show/tv network/horrible, horrible horrible piece of literature. This is the kind of thing that any self-respecting woman will not admit to reading. (So if any woman ever admits to reading/watching/liking this stuff, be warned: she is more than likely just as shallow as all the characters in this book/movie/horror show.) I, however, have no self-respect, so I will admit to reading this… sigh… book. Ish. Thing. I will not, of course, admit to liking it. Hated it. However, as outlined earlier, I read everything. So it is no reflection on my character. But for the occasional boy who might happen upon this blog, I’m going to tell you the truth about this particular category. If you meet a girl who admits to “just looooving” the E! network, anything written by Candace Bushnell, or the mall- any mall, mind you- then run. Run like the wind, Bullseye. She will spend $50,000 on a wedding and divorce you in six months when she doesn’t receive a new pair of shoes every day, every hour, on the hour. And not that Payless junk, either. You’re going to have to cough up designer, baby.
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