Dear god, make me a bird, so I can fly far, far away from the inevitable “Sex and the City is now on Netflix and the children are watching!!!” discourse.
Do I really need some twenty-three year old on TikTok lecturing me about Sex and the City being nothing more than an ethnocentric, heteronormative, myopic view of both femininity and New York City?
Not really!
Do I need to be reminded that Carrie could never, ever afford her apartment—much less her Manolo Blahnik collection—via writing one single column per week?
I’m a writer with fifty-seven jobs—trust me—I know.
Do I want to listen to a child declare that “…for a sex columnist, Carrie is a total prude!?!!?!?!?!?!?!” as if this is some brand new critique?
Sure! Why not? Just as soon as said child has watched the episode where Carrie ice skates with the bisexual and kisses Alanis Morrisette 34823098309 times like I have. Buckle up, sister, I’ve put my 10,000 hours in. I’m a forty-four year old white woman…
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