You Can Make It Up: Sex And The City: The Documentary

Carrie sat in her favorite café in the West Village drinking a soy cappuccino and guiltily snacking on a biscotti. The café was charming, the sun was out, and Carrie typed her latest column on her cloud-light MacBook Air. Her tiny pink Blackberry rang. “Carrie, are you OK?” It was Samantha, breathless from having athletic sex, but also clearly a little nervous. “I just read the news.”

Carrie looked up from her monitor as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Did you just have athletic sex like you’re always doing?”

“That’s not important right now,” Samantha grunted. “And yes.”

While Samantha continued to talk, Carrie put the phone down on the small marble-topped table and ducked into the bathroom where she changed her outfit. She came back to the table in a smart Marc Jacobs top and some Manolo Blahniks. “I’m sorry what were you saying?”

“You know that documentary they made about you?” From the noises in the background, Carrie could tell that Samantha had started having sex again, apparently on some kind of sex swing.

“Of course.”

“Well apparently thousands of women could not get in to see it, and they are furious.”

A look of concern crossed Carrie’s face, which was heavily made up but you wouldn’t know it she looked so natural. She put the phone down on the table and went to the bathroom and changed her outfit again. It was difficult to sit in the perfect little wrought-iron-legged and rattan-seated Italian-crafted café chair with the flowing train of her Givenchy dress. Her Louboutin heels clicked on the tiled floor.

“How furious are they?” Carrie asked, applying some lipgloss to her lips without even using a mirror and doing it perfectly.

Just then a woman who looked normal (ugly) and was not even wearing designer clothes came rushing into the café. “I WAITED THREE HOURS TO TO SEE YOUR STUPID MOVIE AND WAS TURNED AWAY.” She lunged at Carrie with a knife. Carrie ducked out of the way and went running down the street. She drained the last two sips of her cappuccino and threw the porcelain teacup into a nearby trashcan. Just then another woman whirled from behind a light post and tried to punch Carrie in the face. Carrie dodged her fist that didn’t even have any multi-million dollar diamond rings on it, and the woman slipped back into her boring life. Carrie looked behind her to see hundreds of women charging down the street in sensible shoes. Carrie changed her outfit four more times and rushed into her townhouse.

Her Blackberry rang again. It was Charlotte, who was probably going to complain about how she was uptight about something. “Carrie, it’s Charlotte, I’m watching the news. Your house is surrounded by women who look pedestrian and realistic. It’s horrible.” Carrie turned on her television and flopped down on her expensive bed that was very comfortable for having sex with Mr. Big on. As she watched the news footage of women chanting outside of her house, Carrie changed her outfit twice.

“Charlotte, do you think Mr. Big will get his act together and marry me?” Carrie asked while changing her outfit for a third time.

“We should have brunch and talk about it,” Charlotte said. “If you are still alive in the morning. Mimosas!”

Just then, on the television, Carrie saw the outside of her perfect townhouse erupt in flames and the women cheer. She ordered take out from her favorite little hole in the wall that no one knew about except her and that was perfect. She changed her outfit 47 more times and called Mr. Big.

“Help, women are trying to kill me. Do you want to come over?”

Mr. Big was noncommittal. Carrie could see the fire outside of her windows. She had never been so scared, or so bored with all the clothes in her closet. Her phone rang. It was Miranda. “I’m a lesbian.”

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Carrie said. “Boring women who probably only have the average amount of sex with the average number of partners are trying to kill me.” Carrie changed her outfit in distress.

“I know,” Miranda said. “I wanted to tell you that I was a lesbian before you died.”

Soon, Carrie’s whole building was on fire. All the rioting women outside had wanted was to go to a movie a few days before other people. To feel the smallest amount of the type of glamor Carrie experienced every second including even this horrible one. The light of the flames flashed across her perfect skin, giving her a beautiful glow like a paparazzo’s flash. She looked great. Everything was going her way. Maybe Mr. Big would come over. This was the Big City and anything could happen. Carrie changed her outfit nineteen thousand more times, and then she died from smoke inhalation.