And just like that

More things that could also come to an end

Put a finger down if you’ve spent the last four years complaining about how bad a tv show is to everyone you know and hate watching it — sometimes more than one episode at once, because you couldn’t be bothered to watch it last week and the week before that — and asking yourself why don’t they just end it already, only to feel kind of sad when they finally decide to pull the plug on said show. Is your finger down too? Great.

After three seasons and thirty-three episodes, a lot of trying to make up for the 90s (treating current matters like that one scene where Miranda and Steve are having sex and she says “let’s just get it over with” feels almost as bad as ignoring them all together), a handful of plotlines pulled from my worse nightmares, a comeback no one asked for (yes, this is about Aidan), and that one hat that made everyone pull a Matthew McConaughey cameo and ask what the fuck is Carrie’s problem, And just like that is officially coming to an end.

Am I glad it’s over? Sure. Am I sad it’s over? Strangely so. Am I rewatching Sex and the city again to fill this weird void left behind by something I didn’t even like that much? Abso-fucking-lutely.

The whole thing feels like that one relationship you know has to end, but once it does, you’re down and melancholic and sort of depressed, and you start wondering if you made the right decision. And this feeling of regret and guilt almost gets the best of you, but then memories start coming back. You remember that one episode with the phone sex, a moment so traumatizing it could make any woman — even the one’s having great sex — consider the path of celibacy. You recall the hideous Amazon slippers. And the atrocious belted Belstaff jacket — let’s not forget this was the same man who suggested Carrie should clean out her closet and throw away the Roberto Cavalli top; the only clothes he should be mocking are his own. And whatever that thing with the puppet was. And you know it really was for the best.

As I wrote this laying down in a carpet full of dog hair, staring out the window and thinking I should really take my clothes from the drying rack, I couldn’t help but wonder: was the writing just rage bait? Can someone’s already dead dad die twice? Does Miranda’s partner know she can get that bloody gin in New York City? More importantly: what other things could also come to an end?

By now, everyone and their mother is familiar with the plagiarism scandal. I don’t think it’s necessary to state the obvious, but here it goes for the people in the back — copy-pasting someone else’s work and passing it as your own should never cross your mind, let alone be a deliberate action you take and profit from. Still, the whole situation has made me think about the nuances. I’ve seen people go as far as suggesting that coming on Substack to restack notes and essays is as bad as ripping someone off. And if some people are comparing (confusing?) sharing with stealing, does that mean that expanding on somebody else’s words, giving credit where credit is due, and adding your own ideas to the discourse, can also be considered a form of plagiarism? Is it morally bad if you write about something that has been written before? Does it make your work less valid, less worthy?

If we’re really honest with ourselves and with each other, there’s probably only a handful of things that are truly original these days. This is certainly not an excuse to plagiarize anyone, but how many times have we sat down with a friend over a glass of wine, or listened to a stranger rant online, and thought: it’s like this person is in my head? How many times have we, as writers — or “writers”, if you will; I’m not currently in the mood to argue with anyone over who gets to be considered a writer or not (and no, this doesn’t concern those who use third party intelligence to “write” their pieces for them) — pulled the brakes on a draft because someone got there before us? How many times have we overanalyzed every sentence, every word, every comma, every em dash (god forbid an actual person uses them), every question and exclamation mark, because a part of us, no matter how small, is afraid? Afraid of saying the wrong thing, of not looking consistent, of repeating a concept that is not our own, of being perceived as mediocre or stupid or flat instead of smart and witty and authentic. As long as we exist, I’d argue we’re always playing with the possibility.

In general, and I’m certainly not the first to say this, we’re surrounded by emulation day and night. During the times when I’m too online, it becomes hard to tell what is in my brain and what is content. We repeat quotes from the internet, repeat arguments we read in books, repeat bits we see in comedy, and sometimes pass them off as our own, not out of a scheming urge to raise our own star by stealing from others, but rather because, as we float along inside our individual incubation tanks of constant bits of information, we risk gradually losing our ability to decipher whether a thought is our own or if it’s something we picked up from Substack, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Youtube, or some podcast. All of these platforms depict their information as something as personal as a thought in your head, one which just blipped and occurred to you no different than a realization that you have to run a load of laundry today or pick up a half-gallon of milk from the store if you want to make that dish you were planning to make (the one which that Tiktok gave you the idea for).

From plagiarism means you can change the world by Briffin Glue

Some ideas feel like a matter of speed. A train that you either catch now, or miss forever. But sometimes you’re not in the mood to run after the train. And why should you have to?

We’re so obsessed with being number one at anything and everything — to write that essay, to read that book, to accomplish that goal, to buy that dress, to get those shoes, to have dinner at that place, to go out for a drink at that bar, to see that movie, to listen to that artist, to discover that next thing — that we forget that common ground is also a form of community. That space and time can stretch. That the world is not a one-person unit. That likeness is not a threat. Not only that, we’re consumed by this obnoxious and at times insecure need to make sure that anyone and everyone knows we came first. And sometimes we did, and we’re so Julia for it — but other times we won’t be the reference, no matter how much we think we are, and someone else is the Gabbriette of the record. Sometimes there’s not even a Julia, and most certainly not a Gabbriette; maybe it’s just timing, coincidence, and all those universal forces that have nothing to do with us.

Because that’s the thing: life and taste and personality and knowledge and world-building and ownership shouldn’t be treated as a competition. So why do we feel the need to justify ourselves when we come last in a race that doesn’t even exist? This is not to say that if most ideas are secondhand, we shouldn’t even bother to question where they came from. Creative work — much like thrifting the perfect pair of vintage jeans — requires curiosity and acknowledgment, and we can’t just copy-paste our way into a meaningful existence. But policing ourselves to the point of exhaustion also feels like an excruciating way to live.

i don’t think that we artists are capable of conjuring up work that is wholly original. we are a mirage of references. our work, especially as young writers, is often a mimicry of those who came before. the difference here though is when we consume work, we digest it until it mixes with everything else we’ve eaten, all of our own memories and fears and observations fermenting together until what we spit out tastes and looks different.

from the one about ai. by Ayan Artan

And you know what else feels extremely excruciating? Neglecting yourself out of fear. Being too self-righteous. Having a corrupt moral compass, or no moral compass at all. Expecting virtue and purity and perfection from everyone around you, but never holding yourself to the same standard. Leading a life of absolutes, with no concept of flexibility or nuance or self-awareness. Acting like a hypocrite and a cynic and looking down on everyone from your imaginary, glass pedestal. To quote this great piece, “viewing everything through a lens of ironic detachment and judgement is killing your ability to enjoy this very brief life that we have”. This grouchiness doesn’t make you a better person or a more intelligent one; “you just die faster and with more frown lines.” And not even the botox can save you from a miserable, bitter existence.

None of us, and by extension none of our relationships (online, platonic, romantic, or otherwise) are a factory made, ideal model of a foolproof image, carefully packaged and sold with the promise of changing our lives and fixing everything that is wrong. The healthiest couples you know fight. The people who write the most insightful, interesting things have probably said some questionable stuff in real life too. The friends that give life meaning are also navigating it for the first time and making terrible mistakes along the way. We all know this in theory. Yet we keep forgetting how to be human.

I think this is what I miss the most about the original Sex and the city. Every character at some point said something really bad, did something really stupid, or acted in a potentially unforgivable way. They were flawed people — at times really obnoxious, insufferable, self-centred, delusional, and rude people. But they also showed us love, and compassion, and companionship, and selflessness, and honesty, and vulnerability. You knew exactly who they were. There was rarely any performance, or a mask trying to hold on to a face where it didn’t belong. They held each other accountable instead of cutting ties the second something didn’t go according to their expectation.

Some might argue this is textbook lack of self-love or self-respect — I myself think it’s a sign of maturity, emotional intelligence, and sincerity.

But that same maturity, emotional intelligence, and sincerity means nothing if you can’t hold the mirror back to yourself.

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Everybody say thank you Carrie! It’s not clocking to everyone that you were standing on business, but you’ll always be my favorite problematic person. They could never make me hate you.

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Before we log off, say farewell to Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and the ghost of Samantha (they did her so wrong!!! and so did I because the email just went out with a typo on her name five minutes ago and I could actually die from this mistake!!!), and cry over melted ice cream, here are three great essays

How to be a person by Ankita

the fight for a free Palestine isn't enough by Sarah Noack

Maybe this was all meant to happen by Celeste Hartley

And two great videos that expand on the idea of neglecting yourself out of fear

This one about how creative people who don’t create are insufferable to be around, and this interview with Ocean Vuong where he talks about “surveillance culture” and “cringe culture” and how they’re actually just holding us all back.