J Law & A Schum Are Writing a Movie

I hate people who awkwardly love a celebrity they have never met solely based on their public persona. I realize this makes me a major hypocrite because I would give away all of my organs to attend just ONE themed dinner at Vicki Gunvalsons house. White girls love three things indefinitely; iced coffee, Sex and The City and celebrity bffs. Bitches everywhere lost their box bleached MINDS when photos surfaced of Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer vacationing together.

OMFG. People in the same industry hanging out together? Mind blown. Now I sound like a cynical asshole. I mean obviously deep down I wish I was the third blonde on the back of that jet ski or after a digestively succesful week, I could have replaced JLAW on the top of that pyramid. God knows that would never happen, I don’t poo on vacation. Anyways, word just came out that now the duo is writing a fucking movie together. This makes me nervous for a plethora of reasons.

Firstly, nothing breeds mediocrity like a doting friend. Some celebrities like to surround themselves with “yes people” which makes sense since most of their crew is on payroll. Whoever gave the movie “Tammy” written by Melissa McCarthy the green light should actually be fired and then shot. Secondly, mixing business with friendship is always a bad idea. You shouldn’t shit where you go to watch The Bachelorette… does that make any sense at all? Thirdly, I will probably get nailed for saying this but… I didn’t think Trainwreck was funny. It felt like a sad rip off of 12 different romantic comedies and was dark in an uninspiring way that added no depth to the plotline. I am not saying I could write anything better but I am allowed to be a judgemental coward through my computer screen #troll.

Just because you CAN do something, doesn’t mean you SHOULD. Like Sarah Jessica Parker for example… have you seen her shoe collection? If kitten heels and every fabric swatch from Chicos had dirty unprotected sex, there you’d have it. Or Hilary Duff’s music career revival. It wasn’t working for Lizzie and it isn’t working for you. Like just come out with a line for Macy’s and call it a fucking day. I secretly hope their movie is amazing because #girlpower and I end up feeling like a bitter old bitch but after “Tammy” I need to protect myself. Jen and Amy, I wish you the best of luck on your endeavor and will be awaiting my invite to the next tropical girls trip, metamucil in tow. Love you.

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Markers and a Mugshot: The Kim Richards Story

I think about Kim Richards more than I think about anything else. I love Kim Richards and am very troubled by her recent mishaps. First she escaped to Witch Mountain, then she kicked a police officer (which is pretty baller), then she trespassed, then she started fucking turtles, then she got a nose job, then she found Christ in the form of a squirrel and now she is shoplifting. Not sure on that particular order but it has all been a shitshow of epic proportions. I have two words for you Kim; LIFETIME MOVIE.

In all seriousness I think Kim has a good soul so I do want her to get better. But like, there are kids starving and shit so I can’t waste too many heartstrings on her recovery. What I would like to focus on is the details of her latest role (and first since she was 6) as the Real Shoplifter of Van Nuys. As reported, Kim stole $600 worth of shit at a Van Nuys Target. It’s one thing to steal a pack of gum by discretely shoving it in your tits, its quite different to steal $600 worth of goods at a TARGET. She had to be double-carting that shit… With any illegal activity, the highlight for me is always the mugshot.

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That hat tho.

Here are some pics of Kimmy’s loot. Either she was trying to start an elementary school for turtles or she is regressing back to her childhood and buying all the things she never got to shop for being a childhood star and all.

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The good news is that she wasn’t stealing any Franzia or cans of paint, the bad news is that she stole enough coloring books to stock up Jared Fogles white van to the brim. Get well Kim and remember I will ALWAYS love you.

Dr. Schimmel

I have always loved doling out advice… usually in the form of a vintage Britney Spears lyric or sad bumper sticker. Unfortunately 98% of the time I am too busy thinking about when the McRib is coming back into my life to give my full attention to other peoples problems but I try and give it a solid 54%. Here is the result of that from this week’s podcast. Live your dreams.

PREQUEL SEQUEL:

Fuck Fuckboys

I am aware that I’m always 6 months late to millennial slang. A term I have been grappling (big word) with as of late is “fuckboy”. What is this mythical fuckboy? After my misunderstanding of Trap Queen (which I figured was a bitch who swaps birth control for tic tacs and traps men with a fetus) I felt it absolutely necessary to go straight to the superior source… urban dictionary.

Fuckboy (noun)

A Fuckboy is the type of guy who does shit that generally pisses the population of the earth off all the time. He will also lead girls on just for hookups, says he’s really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to fuck you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time but pretends to be really nice. He also does really fucked up shit and then complains about people who do the same old shit as him. Once a fuckboy always a fuckboy, because fuck boys ganna be fuckboys.

Cuh-yoot. When you really think about it, potential fuckboys can only blossom into bonafied fuckboys with our permission and allowance. The key to eliminating the species is to disable the fuckboy. That is not a physical threat calm the fuck down. What I mean is that fuckboys can only be relevant if we as females ENABLE the fuck boy. The second you get a whiff of Armani Acqua di fucking Gio find the nearest chastity belt and head for the hills. An estrogenous love side-affect is that sometimes we equate all SEX to deeper feelings. While in the land of Nicholas Sparks, intimacy is all pancakes in bed, love letters and fucking swans; unfortunately the only intentions we ever REALLY can know are our own. The harsh truth is that once a fuckboy, almost ALWAYS a fuckboy. So while we are envisioning 365 letters, and dying side by side in some waspy plantation hospice a la the Notebook, your fuckboy just needs a willing (hopefully) orifice.

If he’s not taking you to dinner but is regularly sleeping with you, he’s a fuckboy. If he is platonic on the streets and freak in the sheets, he’s a fuckboy. If he doesn’t believe in labels, but his phone is full of them i.e.; “Blonde girl from Chateau” “Kylie from NYC” “Buttaface Barbara”, he’s a fucking fuckboy.

Ladies. Guys put their penises in their OWN FUCKING HAND. The same hand they high five their boss with, pump their gas with and wipe their ass with. Having a guy want to sleep with you repeatedly without any form of commitment means he is a fuckboy and WORSE you are a fuckboy enabler. Remember this as a mantra for recovery, penne before penetration. (That was supposed to be clever… Penne is a noodle often served at romantic Italian restaurants)

Playas gonna play. Talkers gonna talk. Fuckboys gonna fuck. And bitches better WALK.

Editors Note: I apologize to my family for the excessive fucks and to readers for my desperate rhyme schemes and alliterations.

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

Things I Am Bye Felicia-ing

Hiking – It’s not that I dislike nature, I actually quite enjoy it. Granted, I can think of 72 things I enjoy MORE than general foliage. My issue currently is the Instagram rape my pupils suffer daily with the overflux photos of bitches hiking. First came the juices, then came the acai bowls, now it’s the Simba in the Lion King basic ass hiking picture. Congratulations, you climbed a big pile of dirt at 6am and burned 650 calories before dawn. I stayed horizontal, watched Kathie Lee and Hoda and lessened my chances of getting Lyme disease or bitten by a snake. Who is the real winner here?

Hilary Duffs Music Career – I mean… this was cute when she had her old teeth, now it’s time to give up. Some people say you should never give up on your dreams. I am not one of those people… if things don’t come to fruition after a solid 10 tries, pursue elsewhere. Find a new dream. Become a freelance jeweler or take up welding. I love you Hilary, always have and always will but this seems So Yesterday.

Frappucinos – Apparently there are 76 new flavors. A cotton candy frappucino? What kind of sick ass bitch would order something like that? I have a few new flavor suggestions for you Starbucks, these are on the house: Diabetic Dreamin, MuffinTop Mocha, Die Alone & Cream. Listen, I can wrap my head around liquid calories that are alcoholic. But a buzz-free beverage that is nearly 50% of your suggested calorie intake is gross.

FOMO – Fuck fomo. If I hear one more bitch whine about having FOMO, I am going to hurl my body through a window, find the largest shard of glass and engrave tic tac toe boards into my own flesh until I bleed out. How do I put this gently? YOU SOUND LIKE A MENTALLY UNSTABLE, INSECURE, WHINEY DUMBASS. I feel better. You say FOMO, I say Lexapro. Wah wah, get over it. Anyone with 1/7 of a brain knows you can never judge a party by it’s pictures… a cluster of girls “candidly” huddled on a patio laughing with an aggressive X-Pro filter probably means they were only serving Svedka with store brand soda (no garnishes) and the party sucked ass – no one takes pictures when they are having shitloads of fun, think about it.

High-Low Hemlines – I shouldn’t have to explain this… in fact I won’t.

Have an amazing weekend. See you on the other side of my menstrual cycle when I am being a less angry bitter old troll.

LeBron Shames

Today is a day that has challenged all my serotonin levels. I know its popular to bitch about Mondays but when you are a mediocre d-list blogger/podcast host, it’s always the fucking weekend. I woke up feeling fresh and ready for my favorite night of television ahead (Bachelor in Paradise and RHOC) and went to kick off my week with a double wheatgrass shot #earthy. For the record, Jamba Juice is the WORST place to get any sort of good news. Everyone is more concerned about their free boost and although the staff is chipper, they are really just ready to get the fuck out of there so they can head back to the community college they came from. No offense…

As I waited in line my phone pinged alerting me of a new follower on twitter. As you can tell from the post below, followers are a huge part of my life. I love them more than most people in my family despite never actually meeting them. Family is bound to you by blood, social media followers have to make a conscious effort. It’s more sincere. Anyways, I check my phone to see who my new follower might be secretly praying for a minority (need to broaden my audience) and was delighted to see my new follower was a lovely chocolate man named Lebron, Lebron James. Why does that sound so familiar? Hmm. Did we go to high school together? We couldn’t have… I know every black person within a 10 mile radius of my hometown by name. I decide to further investigate.

Holy fucking shit balls. Lebron fucking James followed me on twitter. I contemplated buying a round of wheatgrass for everyone in that place but I’m jewish so that seems super fiscally irresponsible. He only follows 180 people, so naturally I assume he must be really in love with me. I knew buying those oversized hoop earrings was going to be lucrative. Fuck I am urban.

For the next 38 minutes I called every heterosexual male I knew, emailed my dad alerting him I am a big fucking deal and started thinking of cute biracial names for the bastard child I planned on having aka my child support turned shoe funds. Sienna seems too Arian and Laquisha seems too on the nose. Maybe something obscure like Melon? That could garner some good publicity.

As I settled into my local sushi place for a celebratory sashimi (had to get my raw fish fix before I was knocked up with Lebron’s child) I decided it would only be polite to send him a tweet thanking him for the follow. I figured I would utilize the perks of direct messaging as opposed to a basic tweet, that’s for gross commoners. We were basically dating.

As I went to send him a message I realized I was not allotted the option to directly message him… that’s odd? Maybe he doesn’t allow direct messages? I then scrolled through his elite selection of 184 people he follows on twitter assuming I was still one of them. After 4 scrolls I realized I was no longer apart of the club….

What the fucking fuck? Is it my hair? Am I not funny via twitter? Is it because I talk too openly about my digestion? WHY LEBRON WHY? Lebron James followed me on twitter for 43 minutes and it was the best 43 minutes of my life. Like some dumb fuck once said; Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. Lebron, I am here when you are ready to come back to me… arms and ovaries open.

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#thewaywewere