I Don't Mean To Get All Religious

Amen,' I Exclaim, Accidentally Spitting Out A Raisinet. I Pick Up The Chocolate With A Kleenex And Stuff It In My Purse. Ten Bucks Says A Month From Now I'll Have Forgotten About It And Will Finally Have Said Heart Attack When I Assume A Rat Shat In There.

I Yearn To Be A Woman Of More Depth, But I'm Not So Fond Of The Path I'd Need To Follow To Get There.

Really? If I Could Hate My Trainer? That Would Be Ideal. I'd Prefer To Despise This Person With The Fire Of Ten Thousand Suns. So When I Walk - Nay, Crawl - Out Of Here At The End Of My Workouts, I Want To Lull Myself To Sleep By Picturing My Very Talented And Inspirational Trainer Getting Hit By A Bus. A Bus That I Am Driving.

Point? Maybe You Aren't A Carrie Or A Samantha Or A Charlotte Or A Miranda. Maybe You're Just You.

I Still Believe In The Holy Trinity, Except Now It's Target, Trader Joe's, And Ikea.