i consumed the entire sex and the city catalog in threeish days

plus britney spears' memoir, kevin costner's divorce, top chef's new host, and did we lose jonah hill???

I got the flu. And right in the middle of hot (unemployed) girl summer! I was so sick I couldn’t read. I couldn’t text. I couldn’t sit on the couch and knit. So I did what any forty-three year old woman who’s just vomited out her nose would do—I sought comfort in the bosom of lifelong friends Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte. And after two movies, ninety-four episodes, and countless hours in the Sex and the City universe, I couldn’t help but wonder, who was the sick one here really? Was it me and my new obsession with Dior saddle bags? Or should we call 911 for the guy with the funkiest tasting spunk???? Except all the Manhattan urologists are busy with Harry Goldenblatt’s dried-up dust balls!!!!

ageism, amirite???

You can’t think about Sex and the City without considering its newest iteration And Just Like That, a show I watch every week just to see what bananas storylines and unhinged character choices Michael Patrick King has thrown into the fire alongside Miranda’s apparent …