"What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?" Mr. Big Asked. Replied The Prophet Carrie: "I'm Going To Become Famous."

A few weeks ago regurgitated Sex & The City columns stopped appearing in the New York Observer, barring us from continuing what had become a weekly ritual of seriously brooding over the time-worn lessons told through its enduring characters. We really really missed that ritual, (not), so it's good (not) that today Sex & The City has taken upon itself to return to the pink paper, with a little story on this one time Carrie and Mr. Big broke up. See, Mr. Big wouldn't let Carrie talk about their relationship or listen to his messages or pick up the phone when he was in the house, but she was a flighty and insecure and emotionally infantile codependent young woman with no real direction (Sample exchange: ""What are you going to do with your life?" he'd ask. "I'm going to become famous.") so she distracted herself with cocaine and dancing around to disco music. And this is the part where you get to experience the true genius of Candace Bushnell's writing, because this is how it ends:

"That is so sad. You won't like it when you get there."

"Get off our planet."

Then he'd go and smoke a cigar and sulk, or go to the store again with Mr. Marvelous.

In the middle of July:

"Is there somebody else?"

"This is not about anyone else. This is about us."

"That's not answering the question."

"This is about us."

"It's a yes or no question. Is there somebody else?"

"No."

"Liar. You've been coached, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone's been coaching you on what to say."

"This is about us. Not about anyone else."

"See? There you go again."

"Why do you have to make this harder?"

"I'm not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette."

"I have to go to sleep. Why won't you let me sleep?"

"You don't deserve to sleep."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"You haven't done anything right, either. I want to get to the bottom of this coaching business."

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone's been telling you what to say. It's an old shrink trick. When you're in a difficult situation, you keep repeating the same phrase over and over again. That way, you can't have a conversation."

One hour later:

"What are you doing? Who are you seeing? What time are you getting home?"

"Early. I'm getting home early."

"You're out of control."

"I am not. I'm home at 11."

"Don't lie to me."

"Don't lie to me."

"I could have you followed. How do you know that I'm not already having you followed? I'm rich enough to have you followed."

This was several weeks after Carrie had begged to be taken to a mental institution.

Oh god, and you can just feel her begging, can't you? What is this madness? What's going on? Are people actually talking or are these voices in Carrie's head? Or are they voices in your head? Because, like, how high would you have to be to actually print this shit in a newspaper?

And Carrie keeps repeating to herself, "Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy," as if she totally knows her story is going to be adapted into a colossal television franchise in which Mr. Big will be played as a charmingly sentimental, if stubbornly emotionally unavailable, man-about town who eventually comes to his senses and makes way for happily ever after.

Which brings us to the moral of the story: anyone who lives her real life as if she is a character in Sex & The City should be institutionalized. Well, duh! But still.

Goodbye, Mr. Big [New York Observer]