Last night I got to thinking that in Sex and the City, when Carrie kept starting paragraphs with ‘Last night I got to thinking’, I’d always have to suppress the urge to get on a plane to New York, track her down, get in a taxi to her flat, ring the buzzer, wait for her to come to the door, rip her head off and spit down her neck. Because it just really annoyed me.
In my heart of hearts, I don’t really think she is the problem- I am. Ok, let me go back to a few years ago when a very traumatic incident occurred.
Back when Bebo was a the social networking site du jour (which seems hilarious now, seeing as it was the website equivalent of a really depressing rave made out of old bin contents reeking of discontent and life polyfiller), I did a quiz to determine which Sex and the City character I am. After answering truthfully, my result was Miranda. Fuck this, I thought, and went back and changed a few answers (which I was fully committed to as a lifestyle change so long as I got anyone other than Miranda), and my next result was still Miranda. AGAIN, I took the quiz, taking care to consciously choose the most un-Miranda answers available, and I still got bastarding stupid uglyface Miranda.
So I have taken this as a sign that no matter how much I try to sculpt my sad, pathetic existence into anything vaguely positive, it always twangs back to being bloody Miranda. With her boring job and dumpy bastardness, crap wedding and washing the skiddies off Steve’s stupid boxers. Fuck!
Now, that’s not to say that the other three embarrassments to femalekind are in any way aspirational. Carrie, Charlotte and Samantha, three women whose sole existence inspired the programme Snog, Marry, Avoid (in that order) are unpleasant wankers of the highest order- each one an arsehole in their own unique way. Carrie, the poster-child for the promotion of mental abuse for the purpose of putting women in their place, made it her life’s work to write about relationships whilst similtaenously conducting the type of relationships that Fred and Rose West would deem ‘a bit dysfunctional’. Berger got it right when he fucked off and left her via a post-it note- I would have just turned the cooker knobs round and let her gas herself to death.
I only don’t like Charlotte because I’m far too much of a sloppy tramp to even consider likening myself to her.
Finally, what can I say about Samantha? Apart from the fact that her character was a glorified prostitute swimming in a cesspit of STDs and self-loathing, not much. Unfortunately, I don’t buy into the whole ‘sisters are doing it for themselves’ thing that was painfully forced upon viewers of the show, much like a hysterical woman ugly-crying in a nightclub while insisting she’s having the time of her life. Carrie, Charlotte and Samatha are (vaguely) intelligent women holding down lives in one of the greatest cities in the world, but yet all three were dependent on men to validate their lives in one way or another. Carrie for work, Charlotte for happiness and Samantha for self-esteem. Thank god Carrie definately reeked of piss (she looked like she did anyway) or the desperation would have been smelt in Yonkers.
Which leads me back to fugly cat-lady Miranda. I suppose it’s not her I despise, it’s me and all of the things I embody that seem to irk the crap out of me and those around me. I like a good bed sock, I replace the words of songs in the Top 40 with my own words (Thinkinggal’s poor boyfriend fucking LOATHES this) and wear lesbian tracksuits- much like Miranda. But Miranda was the only Sex and the City-ite who could stand on her own two feet, and give the rest of the world the finger. And for that I am grateful.
Plus, it could be worse- I could be Stanford, married to Anthony because they are the only two gay men living in New York City. Oh wait…