Carrie Bradshaw’s Inner Monologue
Will the real Carrie Bradshaw please stand up? Ok, there I am! Do you see me? I’m sporting a $10,000 dress with an umbrella stapled to the front of it. It’s total New York funky style, which is what I’m all about. I write for Vogue, okay? I get paid $4.00 a word to write about boys as handbags and everyone just can’t get enough of me. “Oh Carrie, comparing this sad pitiful boyfriend of yours to the new Coach bag is to die for!” I know, top lady at Vogue. It’s because I’m Carrie Bradshaw. Jealous?
Wanna meet my friends? There’s Samantha who just got diagnosed with gross cancer and—oh my god! Look at those shoes! They’re so gorgeous. God, do you ever have those days when you feel like you’re a shoe? I’m having one right now. I’m feeling like I’m a kitten heel with weird open-toed undertones. But I’m also feeling like a slingback. Darn it, now I’m confused. Maybe I should write about it. Yes! “To be a shoe or not to be a shoe: that is the question!” Phew. Thank God I got that out of the way. After writing my 250 word monthly column, my rent is paid for and I can eat everyday at Pastis. Byeeee real life. XOXO, Serious Writer Gurl.
Sometimes people get mad at me because I don’t seem to ever do anything. I’ll let you know that Carrie Bradshaw is always working, okay? I write about sex and relationships so it’s like my job to always have sex and be in a relationship. Miranda always complains about working 80 hour weeks at the law firm and I’m just like, “Do you not understand that I’m working overtime constantly?” Some people could benefit from being a little more self-aware.
Have you met my husband, Mr. Big? He’s an emotionally unavailable asshole but he’s so rich. Whenever I open my legs, i just think about the walk-in closet. We almost broke up this one time though because he bought me an entertainment center instead of some diamonds. Rude.
I have to go. I’m slaughtering a bird and wearing it to some opening later. What’s your name again?
My Inner Monologue
What am I going to write about today? Texting? Anal sex? Texting during anal sex? Sigh. I couldn’t help but wonder what there is to actually wonder about. Maybe an iced mocha will clear my head.
I hate boys! I’m at brunch right now trying to get advice about this one guy but it’s hopeless! I really need my friend to be a Samantha right now but she’s being a total Charlotte! I’m feeling the urge to just shout “dicks” in this restaurant for no particular reason.
I want an Aidan, not a Mr. Big. I want someone who’s nice and hot and can build me things. Aidan was so amazing. Mr. Big, by comparison, is a total nightmare. He reminds me of the bankers who are creeping in Murray Hill on some chick named Brittknee and talking about their stock options. Gross. I’m more real than that. I’m more downtown!
It’s really weird when every relationship issue I’ve encountered has already been addressed in a Sex and the City episode. The dude I like has a boyfriend? I’ve been Jack Bergered! I’ve fallen for a stoner who still lives with his parents? Carrie has too! It’s things like that where it makes it hard to discredit the show. Even though it’s become a disgusting parody of itself, Sex and the City really did capture an important moment in people’s lives. They talked about things that were so obvious and relatable, and yet there had never been a TV show about it.
Sex and the City was amazing because it didn’t let anyone get away with anything, Carrie Bradshaw, in a way, also didn’t let anyone get away with anything. And I try to do the same. Calling bullshit on things since 2010.