Sex in the City? Try a gun fight.

There seems to be a common misconception in entertainment that being young and single in the city is the best case scenario for a female. According to the episode of Sex in the City that I caught tonight, I should be rail thin with abnormally great hair and a wardrobe so vast I don't ever have to wear the same thing twice. I should be spending what's equivalent to a month's rent on shoes I can wear with only one outfit, made by people who's names I can't pronounce.

What baffles me is the fact that their apartments are always spotless. This leads me to believe that writers in New York make a hell of a lot more than I thought and can afford a live in maid (which isn't likely) or the writers of the show are so completely out of touch with the actual experiences of single young women that my dad might as well write the show.

I like to think that real life in the city is a vastly different experience. Tonight I was wandering around my apartment, getting ready for an exciting night of sitting at my computer and rambling until I came up with a coherent thought when I experienced the one thing any person in an urban dwelling has nightmares about.

There were two loud popping noises behind me, and the sound of shattering glass. Either someone was shooting at someone and had really bad aim, or my landlord was more serious about the money I owe her than I thought. Either way, being shot in ratty pajamas while eating microwave popcorn is not how I planned on leaving this earth, so I made a running dive behind a wall and stayed there.

After a few minutes, I finally got the nerve to peek around the corner. Either the person shooting was dead, or running from the authorities, so either way I was in the clear. Unless it was my landlord, but if she shoots me she's REALLY not getting her money and I'm sure the blood stains in the carpet would ruin my chances of getting my deposit back so I assumed it was safe.

The first thing I noticed was the shards of glass all over the floor. I looked up to survey the damage to my apartment, and to my surprise my glass door was perfectly intact. Upon further inspection I learned the horrible truth.

I went diving behind a wall like one of the hippos in Fantasia because the last Diet Coke in my fridge had managed to freeze, and then explode with such a force that it made the door of the fridge swing open, allowing the can to fly through my apartment like some sort of caffeinated grenade, not stopping until it took out all of my brand new wine glasses and gave me a massive coronary.

There is diet coke syrup on the walls. The ceiling. The carpeting in the other room. My white table cloth. Everywhere. The girls in Sex In The City? They were partying with rich men who have private jets. I was dodging from bullets that look strikingly similar to soda cans.

I'm not sure why that particular soda can decided that tonight was the night to end it all, but I do know that Carrie Bradshaw didn't spend her Saturday night in old pajamas scrubbing Diet Coke off of the ceiling of her apartment while listening to infomercials. If she did, I might find the show a little bit more believable.

Now its your turn.

What are you b!tching about?