I was 18 when I first watched Sex and the City.
A chic Carrie Bradshaw, strolling aimlessly along the ornate New York city sidewalk donning a white tulle skirt and pink tank top seemed like my ultimate fantasy come true.
Her life was like a window to the Promised Land.
And before I realised it, I was devoted to the show. Funnily enough, the show had little in common with my life. The women I adored were better dressed, better-looking, drawing fat paycheques and living in plush apartments in Manhattan. Here I was, relegated to a student dorm, scuttling through existence on a shoestring budget.
Nonetheless, the show resonated with my being unlike any other.
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