Hey, it looks like a ‘Sex and the City’ prequel is in the works, courtesy of The CW. We’re impatient and don’t want to wait for them to make the thing, so we decided to write it ourselves. Feel free to film away, CW!
INT. TINY STUDIO APARTMENT – HELL’S KITCHEN – NIGHT
CARRIE BRADSHAW (21) sits on a milk crate. She wears a “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt and a pink tutu. She types on a computer. It’s a clunky gray desktop with a blue screen. The Doogie Howser theme song plays.
CARRIE (VOICE OVER): When you’re young enough, the whole world feels like your oyster. But then when you get to be a little bit older than young enough, it starts to feel like you’re trapped inside that oyster, with salt water in your eyes, and and also the oyster is dead. I reached that point the day I bounced a rent check for my portion of the 300 square-foot Hell’s Kitchen studio I shared with two Estonian models.
ANGLE ON: TWO ESTONIAN MODELS sit on a cot on the floor. They stare dead-eyed at Carrie, in silence and posed.
CARRIE (V.O.): I’d spent my last dollars on a box of Ramen, a tampon, and a tube of fire engine Wet ‘n Wild lipstick which I used to paint the backs of my old Nine West pumps Louboutin red. Meaning: I was totally broke and once again, I regretted splurging on that pack of 6-ply Charmin toilet paper.
One of the Estonian models lies down on her cot. She pulls up her blanket, which is made of TOILET PAPER.
CARRIE (V.O.): So what was a poor girl in the big city to do? Put on her best pearls and venture out to land the rich man of her dreams.
INT. SHITTY DIVE BAR – NIGHT
A few greasy older men stand by the jukebox. A BARTENDER (25) with Flock of Seagulls hair stands in front of Carrie, who has draped 11 pear necklaces over her t-shirt.
CARRIE: Hi. I think I lost my purse…
The bartender rolls his eyes.
EXT. WAREHOUSE ROOF – NIGHT
Carrie stands on the roof with the bartender. He’s using a CROWBAR to get into a window. He props it open. Inside is a lofted bedroom with denim jackets and beer cans scattered about.
CARRIE: Um. Do you even live here?
BARTENDER: You need a place to stay tonight or not?
Carrie shrugs and gamely removes her red-backed pumps.
EXT. SIDEWALK CAFE – DAY
Carrie sits across from MIRANDA HOBBES (21), CHARLOTTE YORK (21) and SAMANTHA JONES (50).
CARRIE (V.O.): The next morning, as always, I met the girls for brunch. Café Trendy was our favorite Sunday spot. Each food order came with a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and if we could afford a meal, we’d just order the Bloody Marys. If we couldn’t afford the Bloody Marys, we’d just bring cans of Tecate and pound them while standing near the bathrooms, waiting for the bus boys to come by with the cleared plates so we could grab uneaten bits of egg and spinach quiche. Today, though, Samantha was footing the bill.
SAMANTHA: You can thank my new sugar daddy, Flava Flav.
FLAVA FLAV waves from across the street. He wears a giant sun dial around his neck.
Carrie scratches her arm.
CARRIE: Girls, oh no – I think I got a rash from the guy I went home with last night.
CHARLOTTE: Crabs? Low thread-count sheets?
Carrie shrugs. Samantha sucks on a piece of celery.
SAMANTHA: Well, was the sex good at least?
CARRIE: We didn’t even have sex. We just made out for a while and then he shot heroin and played Atari. I think he’s in a band!
MIRANDA: Ugh. What did we tell you about dating guys in bands?
CARRIE: I know, I know. It goes: bankers, lawyers, trust fund kids, architects, then musicians.
Charlotte looks at Carries arm, which is covered in red dots.
CARRIE: But it’s not like I’m going to marry the guy. I just needed-
The girls turn to Charlotte, who is SHRIEKING.
CHARLOTTE: Carrie, that’s not a rash. Those are… BED BUGS!
The girls all look at Carrie. They scream and run away, leaving her alone at the table.
CARRIE (V.O.): The girls stayed away from me for two months after that. I had to call my parents for a loan after I was forced to throw away all my clothing and toilet paper.
Carrie slowly eats all the food left at the table.
CARRIE (V.O.): By that point, I’d already brought the infestation home. The marks left on the two Estonian models cost them both print jobs, and they were forced to move back to Romania. I moved in with a nice girl studying performance art at The New School. Her apartment wasn’t in Manhattan, but that was okay for the time being. Sometimes, when you’re young enough, the whole world seems like your oyster. And sometimes, when you’re a little bit older than young enough, you just have to fumigate that stupid shitty oyster and move to Brooklyn.