Sex and the City ruined my life

You know that episode where Berger tells the ladies "he's just not that into you"?

And you know how it became a national phenomenon, with a book and Oprah appearances and a fucking media tsunami?  And then ten years later, there was a dumb movie?

Well, "he's just not that into you" can FUCK RIGHT OFF.

I feel like, if I didn't know about that, I might find some small comfort in still thinking that Mike might want me, or that he's just scared to approach me, or some bullshit fairy tale that would let me sleep at night.

HOWEVER.

Having been exposed to "he's just not that into you" is like being punched in the face every day with the reality that he is, in fact, just not that into me.

"If he wanted to be with me, he'd be with me," I tell well-meaning friends who try to give excuses for his [lack of] behavior.  Empirically, I acknowledge that Berger is right, and I am wasting my time wallowing in what-could-have-been.

That I am denied the tiny pleasure of daydreaming that Mike is as miserable without me as I am without him makes me angry, and for this, I blame Sex and the City.

FOREVER.