Don’t get me wrong- I watch Sex and The City. I never got why she wore a lot of shit on her head, or why she thought Chris Noth was remotely fuckable, but I still dug that slutty old lady who made all the cock puns. I’ve seen most of the episodes, I’ve drank booze and saw them with my ‘girlfriends’ and at one point I concluded I may have been a Miranda even though I’m not a ginger bitch. However, there’s been something about the show that has been gnawing at me lately.
I’ve been out of college with a writing degree for almost a year now. I too, moved to NYC (well, Brooklyn, but I wear more skinny jeans than Charlotte) to pursue writing. And I’ve done pretty well with it, soo fucking whoop-de-do for me, but something’s been bothering me and I just need to get it off my chest:
Carrie Bradshaw, you gotta be tripping balls to have us believe that you can sustain yourself that extravagantly on that one stupid-ass column. You lying bitch!
I get it Carrie. You’re tres chic. You don’t stay up late and read Ginsburg like a lot of the writing majors I know, but you do write passive-aggressive things about your exes, so you’re as much of a writer as one can be. But you live in Manhattan (a town that literally grabs your money from your hand and eats it alive) and you only write this ONE FUCKING COLUMN for the first three seasons of the show. You know, before you got that weirdo dude taking his pants off at you in Vogue Magazine/a book deal of recycled posts. Good for you, you’re such a rich and well-read socialite! But that means for a while, that column was your base income. THAT’S INSANITY.
So I really get that you spend a lot of time laboriously smoking out your window in a crop top writing things like ‘that got me thinking..are men like wet socks?’ and ‘here are personal things about my whore friends that they probably don’t want you to know’ and ‘are relationships like a monkey circus?’ and it must be hard. I can relate- I spend a lot of time wasting away my hours drinking Coors Light and writing ‘cheese i don’t shave bitch bitch yap’ all day long. It’s cool, it’s fun to work at home, and good for us.
But listen. Stop trying to pretend that you can live in New York and have this overly successful life based on writing alone. It’s a cruel joke! It hurts my feelings! You have to be poor as fuck because every writer, including myself, moves to NYC and feels oftentimes homeless. A good day is when you don’t think ‘maybe I should cook these garbage rats for sustenance’ and a great day is ‘i have 35 dollars I’m going to finally be able to eat something other than canned beans and Four Loko.’ YOU MAKE NONE OF THE SENSE, BRADSHAW.
I’ll prove it with math, even though I haven’t done math in about 34 years. Whatever. Okay: she writes one thing every week for a crappy newspaper. That can’t really pay a lot, huh? I’m going to be SUPER generous, because she’s been doing it for years and I guess people like her. I’d say a nice paycheck for a newspaper column is about 200 now, but let’s say the economy was way better in 1998 and she could get 500 dollars a week for it.
That means she makes about 2,000 dollars a month.
Fuck it, I’ll be super generous and give her 4,000 dollars, because everybody loves Carrie and everybody raves about her but I always find her voiceovers really boring.
With New York State Taxes, and this was in almost 12 years ago so i’ll say she probably lost a little less than 4% every dollar. I’ll take maybe 150 dollars off her paycheck, if she pays her taxes like a good girl and not like Willie Nelson.
Now she has 3,850 dollars. She lives in a swanky ass one bedroom that’s not even a studio which is insane. And it’s huge and there don’t seem to be vomiting homeless people on the stoop. Plus you don’t have a Craigslist roommate, maybe a creepy looking guy who scratches his balls or a girl who lays on your radiator like a lizard. Most people who have non-pipe dream jobs can’t afford a place like this. Granted, the apartment is probably rent controlled, but it’s on the UPPER EAST SIDE, which is one of the most expensive places in the city to live. Right now, an apartment her size would cost 2,400. But real estate use to be better so I’ll say that the apartment was 1,800. Because that neighborhood has always, always been nice and I couldn’t even sell my shitty and sloppy future first born to live there right now.
So NOW, has 2,050 a month to spend on shit. And if I hadn’t been generous and doubled her income, she would have had 50 dollars left.
But let bygones be bygones. 2,050 dollars seems like a fortune to me. I’d roll around screaming if I had that much to spend on Forever 21 dresses. But you use it for:
gas/electric: 75.00 a month
at least one pair of stilettos: 800 but you buy like 35 and some of them are nice and others are like really? Feathers? Huh?
all the cabs: 8 dollars a ride you use it every fucking day why don’t you just take the subway you never even go into BROOKLYN
lunch with your girlfriends/dinner with your fuck buddies: A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY. You always eat nice ass shit, and even a diner costs me like 13 to 14 dollars a meal and it’s not even good.
Cosmopolitans in Manhattan: 12 dollars a drink what a fucking ripoff
STUPID ASS CLOTHES: A MILLION DOLLARS I DON’T KNOW. I can’t even imagine ENTERING half the stores you enter. They all have white walls and Cheesecake Factory music and even the keychains are 400 dollars. And you sometimes really miss the mark with your fashion, Bradshaw. A newspaper print dress? Are you doing this?
Condoms: A trillion dollars
Thus, I have come to the conclusion that you are in 3,000,000,000,000 in debt. a . Writing pays nothing! It never paid anything! Get your head out or your ass, world! She’s fucking BROKE ASS.
I feel so proud of my diploma now. I’m going to burn it to keep myself warm in my heatless apartment in winter, probably. Let me now eat some ham off the ground, okay? But I’m a writer! I’m a WRITER!!!! Hell, at least I budget my shit.
Carrie Bradshaw, you dream crushing, bone-crushing bitch.