Among many of the wise words Samantha Jones once uttered throughout her tenure as the friend who upstaged Carrie Bradshaw, one of the most notable was: “Women with candles replaced women with cats as the new sad thing.” And the more you look around various New York City apartments, the more you realize, “Damn, that bitch was right.” Because these candle clusters peppered throughout the space almost always belong in the apartment of a single “woman.” One who “works a lot” and therefore doesn’t have much time to “meet people.” Ah the lies and excuses we tell ourselves in order to quell the madness spurred by inadequacy brewing in our minds. So why not smoke out such thoughts of dying alone with a lovely scented candle? Calming, soothing bullshit to change the energy of the void that is your apartment.
Your apartment. That you will never have sex in. Because only people who live in squalor and have ten roommates get to have sex, apparently. But you, with your perfectly manicured decor and carefully arranged candles emitting just the right combination of notes to trigger a “man’s” arousal should he ever actually set foot inside, will remain forever drowning in the stench of a synthetic life. But, on the plus side, at least you won’t have your face eaten by your cat when you die, as was Miranda’s (a.k.a. NYC’s potential new governor) ultimate fear. In this way, candles are a less grisly emblem for singledom.
Missing A Clit 