I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’ve finally broken up with And Just Like That.
Sure, I’ve hate-watched. I’ve rage-paused. I’ve stared at the screen in disbelief, wondering if I was being pranked. But season three? That one finally broke me. Truly. Madly. Deeply.
How did a show that once gave me the confidence to wear leopard print to brunch and openly talk about orgasms over cosmos turn into… this? This chaotic beige nightmare?
Let’s start with the basics.
Carrie Bradshaw, Domestic Zombie
Remember when Carrie was a sex columnist, typing away on her laptop and chain-smoking while being emotionally unavailable? I miss her.
These days, she just floats around her massive apartment, picking out fabric swatches and waiting for Aiden—who’s stuck in dad duty purgatory for five years.
She barely writes. She barely exists. Even my pothos plant has more personality development.
Miranda, Where Are You?
Let’s be honest—Miranda is no longer Miranda.
Now she’s Cynthia Nixon playing a confused, slightly dazed version of herself. Gone is the sharp, ambitious lawyer who could shut down an argument in seconds.
Today’s Miranda is renting an Airbnb, wandering through awkward scenes like someone who walked out of a self-help seminar halfway through. It feels like the writers gave up and said, “Eh, just let Cynthia vibe.” And so here we are: watching a once-beloved character dissolve into a walking identity crisis.
Charlotte, Cancelled by Her Dog
Charlotte used to fight for love, motherhood, and tradition. Now? Her main storyline involves her dog being canceled. Yes, her dog. That’s what they gave her.
This isn’t quirky. It’s not fun. It’s just sad. And insulting—to Charlotte and to women in their 50s who deserve better than canine PR scandals.
The New Characters: A Lesson in Missed Potential
Let’s just say this—if these characters were on The Bachelor, none would get a rose.
Seema is clearly meant to be the new Samantha. Unfortunately, she has the warmth of a granite countertop and the emotional depth of an empty Google calendar. The others? I’m convinced they were written by predictive text.
There’s no spark, no chemistry, and no reason for me to care.
Aiden. Oh. No. Aiden.
We once adored Aiden. His flannel shirts. His woodworking hands. His emotional availability.
But now? He’s been reduced to teary car rides and one of the most cringe-inducing hand-licking scenes in TV history. It was so bad, I had to physically shield my eyes.
What did Aiden do to deserve this? Who dragged him back into this mess? He was one of the good ones. Let him go in peace.
Dear Max (HBO, WB, Warner Bros. Discovery, or whatever you’re calling yourselves today):
Please. Just stop.
This reboot isn’t nostalgic. It’s not fresh. It’s not even remotely thoughtful. It’s cruel—toward the characters, toward long-time fans, and toward anyone who still tunes in hoping for a glimpse of what once was.
You’ve taken what felt like a love letter to complicated, brilliant women in New York and turned it into a group chat that no one wants to be in anymore.
I miss Sex and the City.
I don’t know what this show is supposed to be.
But I do know this: watching it feels like going to a high school reunion where everyone had bad Botox and forgot how to make eye contact.
So no, I won’t be watching the rest of season three.
(Okay, maybe if I’m drunk. But there better be snacks.)
Have you felt personally victimized by this reboot?
Let’s scream about it together in the comments. We deserve closure.
