I have always been super into discreet plagiarism, so I get really excited when I find an article online I can not only rip off but also write way more accurately. You can imagine my delight when I found a splendid article titled “5 Things Basic Bitches Can’t Get Enough Of” I am still colossally unsure the definition of a basic bitch but have gathered it is not complimentary. From my analysis a basic bitch is someone who loves Lauren Conrad unconditionally, has tried bringing her Juicy Couture sweat-suits to a consignment store (she thinks they still hold value), boasts an inspirational quote in her email signature and gets really excited about a fucking pumpkin spice latte. That shit has 21 GRAMS OF FAT. I live for liquid calories but unless that latte comes with a buzz, blue cheese stuffed olives and/or a tapeworm, I am not down. I should clarify I am not overly enthused about this whole epidemic about categorizing bitches… it seems very anti-girl power and basic isn’t always a bad thing… unless you resonate with the list below.
- The Bandage Dress – Expect to see her in Vegas, with her hair curled in a middle part, drinking a yardstick margarita with acrylic nails, a fucked crossover bag, head tilted and a pursed lip. MAYFAIR FILTER! She will ALWAYS be in a bandage dress because it is the partying uniform of the basic bitch.
- The Eulogy Status – Her cat has a yeast infection, she CAN’T EVEN FUNCTION since Paul Walker died or her grandmother went into cardiac arrest – you have heard it all via social media. I preserve these media portals to track my weight fluctuation, cyber stalk ex boyfriends and self promote. Nothing screams BASIC BUZZKILL then announcing your neighbor is suffering from Cerebral Palsy on Instagram. Get a journal, join a volunteer group and keep the pity party in your private dining room. And cut it out with the dancing baby videos also.
- The Frozen Yogurt Affliction – Besides quinoa, pressed juices, vodka sodas, orbit gum and salmon… basic bitches let their gluttonous desires run rampant for fucking FROZEN YOGURT. It is fat free, low-cal and a sad excuse for ice cream but she goes wild and sometimes even splurges for non-fruit toppings. OMG – #fatgirlprobz. I can go balls deep on a Pinkberry yogurt on a hot summer day but it doesn’t define me.
- The DIY Craft Obsession – If you ever want to see me enter a full throttle panic attack subscribe me to your arts and crafts Pinterest board. As much as do it yourself wall decals, recipes for homemade laundry detergent and tricks of turning old t-shirts into kitschy throw pillows BLOWS MY MIND the only use I will ever have for a glue gun would be to seal my eyes shut to avoid watching a basic bitch glitter mason jars or apply felt hearts to a busted pillow.
- Abbrevs – Like the Israelites spoke Hebrew, every Beverly Hills High graduate spoke Farsi and Helen Keller “spoke” Braille – the language of the basic bitch is as timeless as it is obvious: Abbrevs. “LITERALLY – he is so gorg.” “Let’s def do din!” “Totes perf!” “Sush and champs?” all with the finishing touch of an emoji. Let’s be practical here. Why would anyone type out amazing when you cut a whole 2 characters out by just typing amaze?
I personally don’t find the basic bitch a true threat to society. Sure, they Instagram pictures of their side braid, think Victoria’s Secret PINK makes the best yoga pants and probably think mixing metals is a fashion death wish but being basic isn’t the worst thing in the world. So drink your iced coffee, start preparing for your #TBT post and remember you can be basic and still be one fierce bitch.
Hi bitches. Sorry for going radio silent on you. I am in NYC relishing in my 4 seconds of fame, sampling local fare one hot dog cart at a time and plotting how to pull a Winona at Bergdorfs. Stars they are just like us. For a more intimate and often obnoxious look into my world please follow me on Instagram & twitter @jackieschimmel
We have all heard the legend of the mid-life crisis from our menopausal mothers and the one creepy uncle with a new yellow sports car he can’t afford – what no one ever talks about is the true terrifying reality of the quarter life crisis. You can’t afford to own real estate but would rather sell your ovaries than live at your parents house, you’re too young to have kids but are reminded that your relatives were already birthing their third child at your age and you somehow think you have your shit together because you have a fucking Linkedin account. Six months ago I had my first (of many) quarter life crisis. One Spring morning I took an impulsive leap of faith and irresponsibly decided to quit my job. I had no interest in moving up in the company (which I made abundantly clear) had to lie about my education and live as a rainbow fish in a sea of Ann Taylor. I was paid generously to spend my days exploring my nail art talents, play Pick the Perp, steal beers from the kitchen and watch Netflix. WTF was I supposed to do all day? WORK? DATA ENTRY? KILL MYSELF? I recall my boss calling me into her office to suggest I start being more proactive in getting more assignments from various departments… I don’t think so bitch. Surely they didn’t foresee me contributing actual labor. I was hired for my quick wit, exquisite execution of daytime sequins and gift of casual office banter. This is when I realized I had been wasting my golden years doing absolutely nothing that benefited myself. My thigh gap will never be wider, my liver never healthier and I still am functioning without any prescribed medications. If I was going to make a change I needed to strike while the iron is hot or at least warm! Of course I want children, a hypoallergenic golden retriever and a big house with an infinity pool that I can have my friends over for Sunday dinners where I can serve vodka gimlets with fresh mint from my herb garden in a mason jar so I still seem down to earth and kitschy. But how am I going to get that sitting on my ass all day reveling in Nancy Meyer movies illegally and pretending to be on “business” calls with a broken headset to avoid conversation with coworkers? I am too prude for prostitution, too charismatic for a cubicle and too hyper and egotistical to settle for a 9-5 shitfest. This is when I decided to kick-start my quarter life crisis. When voyaging your quarter life crisis, a bitch must contemplate the following: What are my skills? What do I enjoy? Can I afford this life change? Do I have a back up sugar daddy or position at a family members company? Am I mentally stable? If you answer yes to at least 3 of these pre-requisites you are ready for the next step. A bitch doesn’t always need to be realistic… I leave logic for people who have good credit and make manicure appointments. I think it is completely realistic to think that I am going to have a show, 8 books, a Korean pop album and a line of sequined outerwear for HSN in the next year. Konichiwa bitches! (Is that Korean? Don’t care – it all sounds the same to these American ears – calm down) It was this delusion that led me to believe I could commit to un-skillfully piece words together and create a blog. I knew what I lacked in basic knowledge of the English language I could disguise with cryptic and vague metaphors and aggressive humor. This is how I created The Bitch Bible. This is how I was able to leave my job confidently. This is how I have never for a second contemplated the frightening alternative that this venture won’t pan out and I will end up a fucking Executive Assistant at my father’s company… or an asexual escort for some Middle-Eastern. It’s not a great plan b. Some bitches prefer the stability of a merry-go-round, others thrive from the highs and lows of a ferris wheel. The wild ones are looking for roller coasters and the sketchy bitches are content with a slushee and mowing the funnel cake cart. See what I mean about the vague metaphors? Concluding paragraphs aren’t my thing. Quit your job, book a flight, listen to yourself first, find out what you love and work on it every fucking day. If that doesn’t work do it all over again and don’t come to me for any life advice.
Apparently, the “almost boyfriend” is now a thing. Being that I am a bit anti-social and chronically 6 steps behind anything trendy or on pulse this is the first I have heard of this new brand of settling. As a lady who lives with a label maker on my bedside table it is hard for me to imagine an almost anything. Having an almost boyfriend is like being an almost virgin – its bullshit (or a convenient excuse for slutty Mormons) or having an almost third nipple. “Friends with benefits” are so 2006, this label was only applicable for a hot second because at the end of the day friends don’t fornicate. Would a friend ever make you question your relationship status? Negative. So in reality you are just sexually active acquaintances.
When did “statuses” become so fucking scary? Instead of cornering that fucker and directly asking what your situation is, we sit back at brunch with our girlfriends and assure them (and yourself) that there is assumed exclusivity and labels are for those who are “insecure in their relationships“. Okay Taylor Swift. Why are we so scared to ask these types of questions? It shouldn’t be an imposition to know where you stand, whether it be together or alone. I had an almost boyfriend for 6 months and it was the most exhausting time of my life. My seratonin levels had more peaks and pits then Goliath and I was about one non-replied text away from a Lexapro prescription. I was too afraid to address the non committal elephant in the room in fear of pushing him away. That was until I ran into him at a bar with some box bleached blonde in a polyester dress from fucking Bebe, I bet she had a ringback tone (the worst) and a blockbuster rewards card. How tacky. I wanted to punch myself in the throat for stifling my concerns and finding myself in this less then ideal run in.
Are we or aren’t we? Single or taken? Shit or get off the pot. It doesn’t make you crazy, it doesn’t make you needy, it doesn’t make you clingy. Labels make the world go round kittens… “It’s just a factor of dating in the hook up culture” you say? Let’s blame our generation for not taking control of our romantic lives? GENIUS. Living with an “almost” is like living in an airport terminal – you have passed TSA but haven’t boarded the plane yet and are going fucking nowhere. Because almost really means nothing, and nothing just don’t work for a bitch.
Climbing the corporate step ladder in 6 inch Louboutins is fucking hard, doing it alone is even harder. I have always dreamed of having a corner office with lucite furniture, a Missoni throw and a crystal chandelier with a killer view and 3 assistants feeding me glazed doughnuts while simultaneously cool sculpting my love handles (one of my assistants would be pre-med and authorized to perform procedure). Currently, the closest thing I have to an assistant is my boyfriend and my office view is a plaster wall. I have always crumbled under negative confrontation, have an unorthodox approach to professional emailing and make Holocaust and Hellen Keller jokes under pressure. These are not great attributes when building your business. This is why I created my sassy, pro-active and sometimes British fake assistant…Aubrey Winningham (emphasis on the #winning). Aubrey insists on ocean view tables, hotel upgrades and lives for a follow-up email honey. Aubrey manages “Miss Schimmel’s” schedule with the finesse of a true professional. The birth of Aubrey was super organic… She is the perfect buffer for declined plans, aggressive business emails and turning down endorsements from a company that makes fucking electrolyte water. Do I look like someone who looks like they give a flying fuck about enhanced water, let alone PROMOTE it for a free supply? I already have a free supply of water…it’s called the sink. It’s situations like this when Aubrey can work her magic.
Thank you for your generous offer but Miss Schimmel will be unable to advertise for your company. Although we are sure your product is excellent, it does not hold any resonance to the rest of her content and has the potential to seem like an inorganic endorsement. To keep the esteem and authenticity of our site we must be incredibly selective and hope you understand.
Best of luck,
Assistant to Miss Schimmel
She may not be real but she is efficient as fuck. Aubrey has taken my life from sub par to superior. Last night I found myself creating her Google Account. I decided she is definitely a Garamond font kinda gal and signs off her second email with a simple “A” in lieu of Aubrey. It’s just how she non verbally establishes a bond with people… like look we are already on nickname status make sure you upgrade Miss Schimmel to a city view room with a free fruit basket. Right? RIGHT. I can’t believe it took me this long to manifest my spunky Oxford grad assistant who majored in Business with a minor focus in Journalism.
Assistants are like assholes… wait no that metaphor doesn’t work. Let’s try that again.There is no “i” in team but there IS an “i” in assistant. For comments, concerns or inquiries please get in touch with Aubrey at email@example.com, but please be mindful as she does SoulCycle 4 times a week and is learning Mandarin to further assist with any potential international relations. Please limit contact to business hours.
Best of luck,
I used to get a lot of shit for dropping out of college. My scholarly friends assumed I’d either find a sugar daddy or I would pursue my high school dream of being a “Deal or No Deal” briefcase girl and when that failed, work as an overly opinionated retail associate. My parents were not too thrilled either, my father is a by the book Jew and my mother only pretended to be upset for the sake of a united front, “I care more about you being a good person than getting good grades and going to college” Well, we’re 0 for 2 on that one Ma. I would run into family friends and parents who would guffaw when they asked how school was going and I told them I had decided to pursue other options for myself. I could see their pity and judgment raping me head to toe “Well my little Suzie is just having the best time at Michigan, you should go visit her sometime to get the experience!” Vodka from a plastic bottle and burritos at 3am? I’m chill. People always just assumed I was lazy, overindulged or unmotivated and they are totally right but that is NOT why I dropped out of college.
Last night someone messaged me on Twitter (sidenote: I kind of hate twitter – its is just not my best portal for funny… too restricting) anyways, the message said “you shouldn’t be bragging about not being smart enough to graduate” Valid point. Some let their education define them – some people find validation in attending a prestigious school and let it become an elite factor that distinguishes them. I let my designer shoe’s do that for me. I mean…if I went to Yale I would abuse the fuck out of it, I would probably walk around dressed up as the mascot just to spark questions. Go Bobcats! The truth is school doesn’t make you smart, a syllabus doesn’t give you discipline and due dates don’t show you importance of time management. Not everyone benefits from the same path, especially a bitch like me.
My stint was brief – I would show up for certain classes here and there if there was a hott guy in the class, paid a few asians to take notes for me and even found myself at the dining hall for the pasta buffet. I didn’t have the drive to attend a prestigious university and would rather shoot myself in the asshole then be someone who has been in community college for 7 years (after 4 please just give up). I have always said I will only listen to myself and people who really know what they are talking about. The first class I attended in college was an English Lit class – the teacher wore bright blue eye shadow, had a hair wrap and a sign on the door that read “I don’t give you grades you earn them.” Gag me. She also sent me an email when I stopped going to class and said I was a mediocre writer but needed to “apply myself more” well duh. I wanted to tell her she needed to stop applying blue eyeliner but I controlled myself.
After one year I decided this shit wasn’t going to work for me. If I had to hook up with one more guy who slept in a fucking bunk bed I was going to lose it. I think college is an amazing time of your life for those who embrace it, I just never could. I wanted to drink out of proper stemware, start my shoe collection and create my own post-adolescent chapter. I would like to say I am just a naturally ambitious bitch – so not true. I am 60% fueled by others doubt and 40% fueled by my shoe board on pinterest. The following is my collection of truths… I did not go to college, I barely passed Senior year of high school and I still have absolutely no clue how to navigate the recycling system. I can’t do Algebra, have no clue whether Hawaii is part of the United States and have no idea what the Civil War was about although I am super glad to hear it was civil. I haven’t taken a dime from my parents since I was 20 years old, haven’t read an educational book in 6 years and have no problem with the stigma that accompanies being a college dropout. I worked my ass off and didn’t let anybody tell me what i “should” be doing or what “should” my career path look like or that i “should” pay my parking tickets on time… shoulda, woulda, coulda, fuck off. I am a college dropout and PROUD bitches (please stay in school kids). I won’t attribute luck to how things have worked out in my favor ever. So no, I don’t have a degree hanging on my wall but I DO have an email from Lisa Vanderpump framed and that bitches, will suffice.