I’m no stranger to bad TV shows. I once wrote a whole screed right here at /Film about how Netflix’s “Emily in Paris” (a show with a sneaky connection to “Sex and the City” in its original form) can barely even be called a television show, because there are no stakes and nothing ever happens and it contains zero narrative structure whatsoever. I even once penned an ode to Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie Bradshaw, the heroine of “Sex and the City” and its reboot “…And Just Like That,” and by “ode,” I mean I called her an irredeemable sociopath. (I also unashamedly love “Vanderpump Rules.” I think it’s one of the best television shows of all time. Fight me!) For better and definitely for worse, I am somewhat of an expert on television that makes me want to use bleach-infused eyedrops or throw my television out of a fifth-floor window. This brings me to “…And Just Like That,” Michael Patrick King’s continuation of Carrie’s New York City adventures.

“…And Just Like That,” unlike “Emily in Paris,” is actually a television show. That’s not an endorsement; I’m just stating a fact. It has multiple storylines that cross over from season to season. Despite some genuinely ludicrous issues with the lifestyles of the main characters (which I’ll get to), actions do have consequences. There is some semblance of narrative here, though the bar to clear — the one set by Darren Star’s French farce, I mean — is so low it’s in Hell. Just because “…And Just Like That” can legally be defined as a television program doesn’t make it good, though. It’s terrible. It is, honestly, one of the worst things I’ve ever watched. Every episode feels like a descent into some form of bedlam that I willingly bring upon myself when I pull up the HBO Max app and press play.

I can’t get enough. A perverse, dark, and horrifying part of me “looks forward” to each new episode of “…And Just Like That.” I will watch every single episode until Star stops or until I am asked to stop in a court of law or something. I would even watch every second of this slop if Sara Ramírez’s Che Diaz came back, even though the mere thought of that character makes me shudder. I feel a strange, gnawing need for each half-hour of “…And Just Like That” given to me by the HBO gods. Let me explain … or, at least, try to explain.

I’ll back up for a second. For the uninitiated (by which I mean healthy and well-adjusted people, probably), “…And Just Like That” is a reboot of “Sex and the City.” The series is pioneered by Michael Patrick King, who took over as showrunner on “Sex and the City” after Darren Star’s departure when the third season concluded, and it brings back Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw alongside Cynthia Nixon as Miranda Hobbes and Kristin Davis as Charlotte York-Goldenblatt. (Chris Noth’s John “Mr. Big” Prescott was unceremoniously murdered by a rogue Peloton at the very start of the reboot, and Kim Cattrall flat-out declined to return as PR maven and original member of the foursome Samantha Jones aside from a season 2 cameo that I hope netted her a comically large amount of money.) Set years after the original show and its two big-screen adaptations, “…And Just Like That” examines Carrie’s life as a widow, her continued, longstanding friendships with Charlotte and Miranda, and new connections with friends like Seema Patel (Sarita Choudhury) and Lisa Todd Wexley (Nicole Ari Parker). On the surface, this doesn’t sound all that bad. It is, though.

The playful spark that made “Sex and the City” into a sensation — and turned Parker and her colleagues into stars along the way — is nowhere to be found in this glittery, shiny reboot devoid of any substance or humor. Whenever the show makes a joke, it can’t bring itself to just trust the audience and spells it out, immediately ruining it. (In the third season’s second episode, Cheri Oteri’s matchmaker is named Sydney Cherkov, and the series bends over backwards to make sure you know it sounds like “jerkoff.” Got it, guys. Thanks.) Carrie now exclusively speaks in the dad jokes and puns she used more sparingly in the original series, like when Miranda says she wants to ghost a nun she recently seduced only for Carrie to reply that would be a “Holy ghosting.” (The only response to that, honestly, is “Jesus Christ.”) 

“…And Just Like That” might be slightly more tolerable — and only slightly — if it didn’t have to stand up to its own predecessor, a show that, in its very best moments, was full of life, emotion, and surprises; even its final season managed to shock viewers in the standout episode “Splat!” Instead, it often feels lifeless, particularly as fine performers like Nixon sleepwalk through their scenes. (I’ll give some credit to Davis, who slips back into Charlotte’s immaculate matching sets and oversized belts as if she never left) It also feels … strangely pointless, which makes sense when you consider that the show was originally supposed to be a single-season miniseries. So, why can’t I stop watching it?!

I know a lot of people who watch “…And Just Like That,” and anecdotally, none of them like it. One friend recently texted me after watching the episode and said, “How many weeks of this torture? 10?” I responded, “Yep. Can’t wait.” (That same friend asked if she could “launch herself into the sun” after just 10 minutes of a recent episode.) Another messaged me to talk smack about the interminable phone sex scene between Carrie and her longtime flame Aidan Shaw — John Corbett, who reprised his original role from “Sex and the City” in season 2 and is sort of sticking around — in the season 3 premiere, which sees the two navigating a frankly illogical long-distance relationship. (Aidan has this whole thing where the two need to be apart for five years so he can handle some stuff with his kids, but he wants them to go no contact and … you know what? It’s not worth explaining. Too ridiculous!)

My point here is that I guess we’re all sticking with this show because it’s really, really fun to dunk on it, something that isn’t true of “Emily in Paris” because nothing that happens on that show is memorable enough to mock. Here’s an example: In season 2, a “crisis” for this band of merry rich people was that they had to … walk … to the Met Gala. (To be clear, not one of these random New Yorkers would ever be invited to the Met Gala.) Because of this, we got a handful of think pieces, and I can tell you my phone’s text alert went off quite a lot after that episode aired. This is to say nothing of the Che Diaz of it all (including the time they hook up with Miranda in Carrie’s kitchen while the latter pees in a water bottle), the utter dismissal of David Eigenberg’s lovable Steve, or the time Charlotte dons stilettos to sprint through a blizzard and buy condoms for her teenage daughter. The one saving grace of “…And Just Like That” is that, at the end of the day, it’s fun to talk about how genuinely terrible it is.

As conflicted as I feel about this, I am on this journey for the long haul. I’ll keep watching “…And Just Like That” and texting my friends about whatever bizarre subplot the show’s writers throw in on any given week. If you’re curious, it’s streaming on HBO Max — and if you’re hate-watching right along with me, then you get it.