The TRUTH About Being the Miranda of Your Group of Friends

“You’re suchhhh a Miranda,” says a woman to another woman, hoping to destroy her self confidence. Any fan of Sex and the City knows that being the “Miranda” of your sexually active, slutty gal pal crew is a straight up call for suicide, or at the very least, heavily melancholic, existential rumination. I would know, because my whoreish, unimaginative female contemporaries have written me off as the Miranda of our clique for actual years now. It’s devastatingly unfair. They all get to be Charlottes, Samanthas, and Carries, a.k.a., the three most confident, feminist, ultra New York chicks to ever star on an HBO network show, right? And I’m stuck with being compared to stupid…Miranda?

If they’re calling me a Miranda, that means I’m a chinless, masculine bookworm with a knack for being mistaken for a lesbian. Well heck, I guess I am destined to live solo in a sterilely furnished, artless apartment with a diabetes-ridden cat. Come to think of it, I do go for depressing jogs in oversized overalls and unflattering bubble jackets. I mean god, I probably will end up marrying an impoverished Brooklyn mama’s boy with an insufferable accent and unmanageable alcoholic mother. And well, I do use my cynical quick wit to distract men from my pear shaped, nipple-less body. I suppose I do I revolve my entire identity around being a financially stable career woman who despises all males. To be fair, all men hated my ginger stubble covered cankles first, so they started it! Oh god, here I go; spiraling deep into a blackhole of anxious depression about being compared to the undesirable, overly political, male ego destroying, law practicing, Miranda Hobbes. God, I hate myself.

I mean, why can’t I be a Charlotte, a woman with actual self worth? Miranda has spurts of self confidence here and there, but why should she? She’s no black haired conservative goddess with alabaster calves of steel. Charlotte wouldn’t be caught dead orgasming underneath an uneducated bar-back. She married a cardiologist for God’s sake, albeit, a cardiologist with a flaccid penis and incestual relationship with his mother, but still, he was a DOCTOR. And by the way, Charlotte’s not afraid to have completely archaic views on sexuality and marriage. Heck, I don’t think Miranda would have the strength to abandon an entire career in lucrative abstract art-dealing to be a full time housewife, do you? I didn’t think so. On a more personal note, Miranda would NEVER have the balls to violently pass judgement on anyone who’s ever had a fetish, adulterous affair, sex toy, or abortion. Charlotte certainly would, because unlike Miranda, she knows where she stands. Oh god. Hang on a minute. Come to think of it, Charlotte might be the early 2000s HBO equivalent of a Tomi Lahren-esque Trump supporter. So maybe I don’t want to be a Charlotte. But that’s beside the point. We can all still agree that Miranda is the absolute WORST, right?

God, why can’t I be a Samantha? Miranda only thinks she’s a ball-busting, sexually explorative feminist, but last time I checked, she wasn’t a gorgeous, blonde, sociopathic skank in her 40s. I mean really Miranda, you’re seriously going to have a baby and miss out on getting consensually gangbanged by a retired janitor, geriatric wall street trader, and 17 year old frat boy whose names you don’t even know? Fine Miranda, you loser, go ahead and breastfeed your “child or whatever” while Samantha, who’s really living, takes off her bra in front of twelve P.R. clients she just met at a club opening while on ecstasy. Miranda, you might not be a total slave to your emotions, but you lose, because Samantha doesn’t even have emotions. Just ask her about the time she felt nothing after contracting mouth herpes from a mute circus clown she blew in the bathroom of a soho taqueria! Okay, hang on, come to think of it, maybe Samantha is a bit of a heartless, robotic sex addict. But, who cares, because being a Miranda is still incredibly embarrassing…right?

Let’s face it. We all desperately want to be a Carrie. Miranda tragically thinks of herself as an empowered New York woman. Please. I’ve never seen Miranda live in an unfurnished, rent-controlled apartment with a savings account of absolute zero. I’m sorry Miranda, but nothing is more “New York” than getting emotionally abused and ultimately jilted by an elusive, last-name-less corporate sleezball who can’t even lend you a spare key or toothbrush. Miranda, did you ever demolish a good-hearted carpenter’s heart because your fashionable, emaciated loins couldn’t resist your clogged-arteried, married, ex-boyfriend’s cigar smoke scented genitalia? No Miranda! You didn’t! Because, unlike Carrie Bradshaw, the ultimate New York City sexual icon, you’re not… well, you’re apparently not… an…

emotionally immature masochist!

My God, Miranda. After genuinely exploring what it would it be like to be a Charlotte, Samantha, or Carrie, I’ve come to realize that you, Miranda Hobbes, are indeed


Wait a second. I’m the MIRANDA of my group of friends. That means that I might, just might, fully have my shit together as a woman. That’s right. The next time your “friends” call you a Miranda, you can confidently trust that you are in fact a sane, stable, and wickedly intelligent female.

Oh, and on a very real, unironic note, Cynthia Nixon, who played Miranda Hobbes on Sex and the City, recently announced her candidacy for New York governor opposite the dreaded, albeit, very sexy, Andrew Cuomo. Hell, I don’t see Kristen whoever, Kim Catrall, or SJP running for political office. Perhaps playing their respective roles on Sex and the City as uptight republican witch, lunatic nymphomaniac, and masochistic fashionista bled into their real-life statuses as culturally irrelevant, apolitical Hollywood actresses. So good for you, Miranda Hobbes, I mean Cynthia Nixon, whoever you are. You absolutely have my vote. I look forward to the upcoming election.

Until then, I’ll HAPPILY and SHAMELESSLY be labeled the MIRANDA of my group of my friends. Because the Charlottes, Samanthas, and Carries out there… well let’s face it, they’re straight up losers.

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