You Can't Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain

by Phoebe Robinson

Right-click and send to Trash all the women who say they’re a Carrie. Even if the woman who says this is Nobel Peace Prize laureate Malala Yousafzai, one of the most important activists of our time. No one is a Carrie. I repeat, NO ONE IS A CARRIE. And why would anyone want to be? She kind of sucks (hello, her entire relationship with Aidan), she seemingly worked about three hours a week and was surprised that she didn’t have money, and after Mr. Big, her on-again, off-again beau, stated he’s tired of New York so he’s moving to Napa Valley, she replied, “When you’re tired, you take a nap-a, you don’t move to NAP-A.” The puns, you guys. THE GODDAMN PUNS. They were endless and ridiculous as if she was constantly competing on that game show @midnight and no woman I know is about that Chris Hardwick life. So let’s be real. At best, us ladies are just a bunch of Mirandas with a slightly better wardrobe and at worst, we’re a bunch of Magdas, aka Miranda’s housekeeper, which means we’re a bunch of nosy bitches who rifle through people’s belongings and let them know they masturbate too much.