or
a 20 year old with sagging breasts tells of her adventures
or
A series of petty insecurities.
These are the possible titles for my biography.
I'm off the belief now that television is lying to us. Sex and The City has us deceived. RomComs, of course, are of the utmost bollocks. However, I want to believe it all. Oh Sigh!
I'm looking to believe that when I'm a rock star, I'll give my money to the hippies that harrass me in the street looking for alms for their pitiful excuses for charitable organisations. My mantra will be thus: 'if it's cute and it's dying, then it will deserve my ill-begotten cash'. This will include, but not limited to baby seals.
I'm hoping, probably in vain, to be a dowdy, brunette Carrie Bradshaw with my own personal Mr Big.
The third option is waiting to be a shorter, thinner Bridget Jones. See: The Wombats - Kill the Director. Until all of this happens, I'll continue to fumble along as the suffix to RomCom without any of the saccharine gratification. I'm a fat Renee Zellweger without her Mr Darcy. I don't even get an arrogant, foppish mistake...
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