Dear Carrie Bradshaw:

I think it's time I told you that I love you. I love everything about you. I love your quirky eye for fashion - you have me hynotized by your transparent tops, your dresses with pants, your teeny tiny jackets with big billowy blouses and, lest we forget, those fabulous Manolo Blahnik's.

You never leave the house without donning the perfect ensemble and I am fully aware of the fact that you do this so that I don't have to. You are the poster child, no, the patron saint, of all things female. You and your friends are glorious icons of womankind. And I love them too.

Miranda, for all of her cynicism, is smart and tough and moody as hell. I love her because she eats when she's pissed and she's still rail thin.

I love Charlotte for all of her beautiful optimism. Her idealism is nauseating most of the time. But that's what makes her so appealing. She's holding out for that which I no longer have the stomach. The great American dream -- girl style.

Samantha is my religion. She demystified the F-word and put a nice feminine spin on it. 'Fuck' is like 'brunch' - it's trendy and necessary and very specific. It's bigger than brunch, frankly. It's more important. It's hotter. Its shocking, but not. It's not because Samantha said it. She wins. And when she wins, we win. Look at Smith Jerrod, for god's sake. She clearly WON there. So, we won too. Week after week of looking at that yummy boy was a party favor we did not deserve.

Still, I love you most of all, Carrie Bradshaw. I love you for working in your underwear. Column after column you composed near enough to nude to make work-at-home moms and dads in their basement offices re-evaluate their uniforms of sweat pants and blue jeans.

I love you for your taste in men. Big and Aidan and Aleksandr, oh my. Each of these men delicious in their own special ways. I love you for making the 'gay boyfriend' every girl's undervalued but oh-so-necessary accessory. I love you for those oversized flowers you wore in your hair and around your neck and on your chest, for one whole season. I love you for the Cosmopolitan. Before you I looked like a sissy with my pink drink. Now, I'm cool as hell and I've even graduated to the occasional Manhattan. You are just so damn good for me.

I love you because you have sex with your bra on. Not once. Not occasionally. But EVERY time. Proving that breasts are not necessary participants in the good sex game. Something I've long suspected, but didn't have the guts to explore. I love you because you only flinch a little when your girlfriends talk about oral sex and tea bagging and porn and talking dirty and g-spots and cocks and cocks and cocks.

You have single handedly made my lunches, brunches and cocktail hours far more interesting. I used to talk about porn, oral sex and g-spots. But now I talk about it and I talk about you talking about it and it's just that much more exciting. Its louder too. I have to admit. I don't approach a single discussion tentatively. I used to. But now I don't.

I love you because you fall. You fall down. You trip. You stumble. You drop things. Just this last week you fell in Dior in Paris, for heaven's sake. But, unlike the rest of us you do not spend hours beating yourself up for being fallible. Nope. You shop. You actually stayed in Dior and bought stuff. What courage! Honestly! Any woman in her right mind would have high-tailed it outta there and hit a New York flea market for the Dior knock-offs to avoid ever being seen by a Dior clerk or Dior shopper again. Not you. You're my hero. You fell. You GOT UP. And you shopped. JESUS. I love you, Carrie Bradshaw.

I love you like you love the girl you like the most from summer camp. It's sort of a crush. Sort of an obsession. Sort of an 'I-want-you-to-live-near-me-because-you-increase-the-value-of-MY-property' kind of thing. Mostly I love you because you're the leader of the Pink Ladies. You're Rizzo. You're the best friend. The pretty girl. The prom queen. The sweet girl next door. You're the queen of the cool chicks. You're who I want to be and the one I want to be my best friend all wrapped into one. You're me. Only way way way way better.

You're everygirl. EVERYGIRL. And I love you. It is with deep deep sadness that I bid you adieu, Carrie Bradshaw. I'll watch you over and over in the years to come. I'll buy the DVDs and I'll stop whenever I surf over you with the remote. I'll fondly remember your hair-dos and the outfits that weren't quite right and your pensive looks while tapping out the weekly QUESTION on your Macintosh. I'll even have the occastional and more than occasional WWCD moment. (what would Carrie do?) Mostly, I'll miss you. I'll miss the pitter patter of your well heeled feet.

I'll miss your frosty lips pursed perfectly for the camera. I'll miss your clever clever banter with your girlfriends and your gayfriends. I'll miss the sex. I'll miss the city.

But, Carrie Bradshaw, I'll miss you most of all.