Charlotte doesn't deserve to be here.

I went to a midnight showing of Sex & The City 2 last night partially because I felt like society didn’t leave me much choice. In retrospect, I’m glad I did because what transpired was easily the most bizarre cinematic experience of my life.

From the second I entered the theatre, I knew this was going to be something special. Every girl shunned regular moviegoing attire in favor of their Carrie-centric Louboutins and frilly cocktail dresses. And instead of holding a trendy handbag, they carried the most appropriate accessory: their drunk gay best friend. The Drunk Gay Best Friend is perhaps the reason why straight people still have no respect for us. They’re tactless, narcissistic and childish. That being said, they make for great entertainment as they have no discernible dignity. At one point, a Drunk Gay Best Friend sashayed to the front of the theatre, turned to the audience and said, “Who needs a cosmo?!” It was an astute question as I did, in fact, need a cosmo but I also needed him to sit down and stop talking.

Throughout all this chaos, a family of four managed to sleep soundly next to me, seemingly unaware of the fact that they were in a public place much less a movie theatre. Meanwhile, a woman whizzed around the theatre in her wheelchair with gusto trying to find a spot, no doubt elated to see Carrie and the girls.

It was then that I couldn’t help but wonder: was I excited to see Carrie and the girls again? I was still licking my wounds from the vapid consumer fest that was the first movie. I was worried that it may be too soon to see them again. Like many others, I invested a lot into the show and I felt personally betrayed when the film turned out to be such a disappointment. It had latched on to the superficial aspects of the show (shoes, cocktails, dicks)  while snubbing the depth and humor of the characters entirely. I felt like the end result was Sex & The City on steroids. Judging by the trailer for the sequel, things were going to get even more vacuous and consumer-driven this time around.

But then I thought, fuck it. I’ll let my hair down and watch the film for what it is. I dashed away hopes of seeing actual feminism or well-written dialogue. I blissfully resigned myself to watching two and half hours of a fantasy-filled romp.

The movie started and it went something like this:

Uncomfortable gay jokes, Carrie’s wearing a weird hat, Samantha said something funny, wait they’re still not in Abu Dabi?, Carrie still has her old apartment “to write” in and that makes me sad, angry and jealous, they’re in the Middle East now and they’re saying offensive things but I actually don’t care, I’m getting kind of horny, this is actually kind of funny and good, Carrie’s book gets written up in the New Yorker (Wow, this is a fantasy), I need to see male nudity now, why is the screen twitching?

Two hours into the odyssey, the projector broke. At that point, I was getting delirious from the heat. I was beginning to realize that my beads of perspiration were not caused by the couture overload but our theatre’s lack of air-conditioning. I was sort of relieved when the screen started fucking up but the cheese stood alone. People got confused and upset. One person even tipped over a trashcan in revolt. But while most of us left to get our refunds, a few devout fans stayed behind to continue to watch the movie even in its warped state. Now, that’s dedication I just don’t have anymore.