Why A Blog?

I suppose the concept of Carrie Bradshaw perched in the window of her New York City Brownstone apartment imprinted a very important part of my brain during development. She is effortlessly cool-chain smoking cigarettes after a night out with her tight-knit friend group where she meets, yet another, tall, dark, and handsome man. 

To be clear, comparing myself to Carrie Bradshaw is a failed method of justifying the romantic curtains I have draped over the prospect of a writing career. If I were to quit my job today, I’d like to think my life would resemble the extravagance of Sex and the City.

Imagine it- I wake up in an apartment between Madison and Park, I have a morning cigarette while on my way to a coffee shop where my D-list column is sold and unanimously adored. Later that evening, I meet my best girlfriends for dinner, shop for a new pair of Doc Martens, have an organic meet-cute with a stranger on the street, and just when they fall for my charm, I tell them I have a deadline to meet and rush into a yellow cab I waved down.

The only issue with this image is that I am no Carrie- if anything I’m a Miranda.  

Carrie Bradshaw wrote a sex column, focused on the complexities of heterosexual dating and I… Well, I’m a Lesbian living in Chelsea with no dating history other than four unsuccessful dates with women from apps, that one girl in high school I was unknowingly in love with, and platonic crushes on my friends. I am nauseated by the sight of a cigarette. My friends are scattered across the country, and therefore not available for weekly brunches. Up until this year, I thought being an aspiring author was the most embarrassing secret someone could have, so no one has read anything I’ve written. 

 And the most glaring difference between Carrie Bradshaw and myself is that I would never cheat on Aiden with Big. 

So what does a twenty-something-year-old Lesbian at the beginning stages of a quarter-life crisis write in a blog? I have no clue. Probably too many self-reflective pieces on how I feel unfulfilled while simultaneously being the most content in my whole young life. 

I’ll throw in an exposé of my dating life, or the lack thereof, and divulge into the battles of gender identity rattling around my skull like a pair of dice. 

Writing is, and always has been, the most delicious escape - so why not use it to, truly, explore myself? Lift the trap door at the top of my head and peek at the green fizzy soda that’s preserved my brain for two and a half decades.

Carrie Bradshaw, although one of the most hated TV show characters, is an example of a hopeless romantic chasing love down the avenues of New York.  She made mistakes, went back to horrible men, had affairs, yellowed the walls of her rent-controlled brownstone, and most importantly, she was the first time I realized women don’t have to be likable or perfect or have it figured out by 33. My shoulders relax each birthday remembering Carrie was in her late thirties when she got her dream job, published a book, and possessed a consistent friend group. 

Sure, I won’t be wearing Manolo Blahniks on a window sill while writing a thought-provoking column comparing men to cocktails, but isn't the visual intriguing?