No-Chella, No-Problems

This year I made the responsible and conscious decision not to attend Coachella. At first it was because my digestive system couldn’t weather a weekend of eating Spicy Pie and for the price of accommodations and artist passes, we could buy an ocean view condo. Also, my people did enough time wandering the fucking desert.

Last year I attended and had 4 mental breakdowns, gained 6 pounds and wore a metal head wreath that I still haven’t forgiven myself for. With every peace sign, crop top and snapchat of trust fund babies pretending to be SuPeR into LCD Soundsystem a bit of my soul dies and reaffirmed my decision to sit this year out. Is it fun? Duh. Does it bring out the worst in people? Yes (please see below).


People tend to go all Silverlake at Coachella. Bitches (and bros) pretend to know and love obscure bands, dress differently, Nashville filter themselves till their fucking phalanges bleed and all while professing that this weekend “changed their lives”. Shut the fuck up Vanessa Hudgens. It’s a music festival. It’s fun as fuck I get it. But if your life epiphany occurs next to a blow-up neon caterpillar it’s time to get your head out of the asshole you shoved molly inside of and grow the fuck up. I can’t with these people. Maybe the floral crowns and chokers are cutting of blood circulation to the brain?

Also, everyone is on drugs. “Nuh-uh Jackie, I didn’t do drugs! I am there for the music.” Go fuck yourself, EVERYONE IS ON DRUGS. I have no problem with this. I am not a drug person but I hold no judgment to those more free spirited than I. For me it’s the idea of these bitches in body chains shoving vials of cocaine up their vaginas like the Mexican Cartel that concerns but also intrigues me.

Then there are the people who bring their fucking kids. So you’ll spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket (I’m assuming general admission) but can’t drop $40 for a fucking babysitter? You’re baby is getting hot boxed ma’am. I strongly believe there should be a Child Protective Services booth right next to the Heineken Beer Garden. “Little Timmy, finish up your bottle, Diplo is about to start!” No, just no.

Beyond all of this, there is a serious social stratification (big word) that sets the mood as separate but definitely not equal. I’m talking about General Admission, VIP and Artist. The harsh truth is, I would never engage in sexual activity with anybody in General Admission. Mostly because there is a big chance they are sleeping in a fucking tent and shitting in a port-a-potty. VIP allots you shitting in a porcelain throne and you don’t have the same Auschwitz level security entrance. Artist passes are ideal if you want to be escorted in a fucking golf cart and drunkenly sway next to fucking Rihanna. It’s called the Coachella Caste System… one day we will read about this in our grandchildren’s textbooks.

As bitches everywhere comedown from their post-Coachella commas just remember it’s not you, it’s your head wreath. See you next year Coachella.


Bachelor Recap Week 3

It’s always a sunny day at the Bachelor mansion. The episode starts with the frontrunners single mom with killer ombre hair and small featured Lauren B talking shit about Olivia the Velociraptor. Shocker. Instantly my only concern is where the fuck Lace is.

Lauren B gets the first one on one date and Olivia almost has an annuerism. “The Sky’s The Limit!” reads the date card and my two concerns are; could they at least TRY and make it look like Ben’s writing and not some disgruntled female production assistant’s and do they only plan dates that have correlate with some stupid semi-inspirational saying you may find at the bottom of a substitute teacher’s email signature “If you can think it, you can be it!” Fucking shoot me in the retinas. The women always delight in the romance of it all… negligent to remember they are sleeping in BUNKBEDS all trying to pork the same dude. Love lifts us up where we belong… on the top bunk.

Lauren B and Ben take flight and all I can focus on is that Ben is wearing a bracelet with a metal plate that says “HOPE”… and there goes my lady boner. They park their little jet plane in a super rapey deserted land plot where conveniently an above ground Jacuzzi is waiting for them so Ben can see if Lauren B is an 7 or 8 based on her bikini bod.

Back at the mansion, pretty but overly emotional half-Asian Caila sheds a tear over how hard it is to imagine him on another one on one date. Dear Caila, this is the fucking Bachelor. Stop crying and have a mimosa.

At dinner, Lauren B proclaims she only “likes really simple things”. I appreciate her game strategy and suggest all woman take notes. Being yourself is wonderful. But being full of shit is better. She goes on and on about how much she loves her dad and basically wants to bone him despite paternity. They swap stories of their cookie-cutter, Pastor guided, functional familied lives and bitch gets her rose. And just when things couldn’t get any better, ANOTHER COMPLETELY UNKNOWN MUSICAL ACT!

The group date card arrives and FINALLY Lace gets some screen time while she sits on the end of the coach gnawing at her nails twitching. The ladies are forced to compete for time with Ben which I LOVE because nothing screams girl power more than a bunch of woman pitted against eachother over a ball. That metaphor is not lost on me.

Jubilee is scared Ben doesn’t like black girls and to cover ABC’s ass explains that she is “complicated” and “not his type” so she is concerned. Little does she know Ben appears to be down for the swirl. Get it Jubs!

Queen Lace and Low Budge Mary-Kate are the goalies and something about watching them face dive puts a little spring in my step. “Balls flying at your face is never fun. But if I have to hurt myself, I’ll hurt myself.” Um same. For a moment I was SURE Olivia was going to Tanya Harding the injured girl. The losers cry and go back to the asylum, I mean the mansion.

Olivia is straight up Glenn Close. I hope Ben does not have a bunny. After Glenn steals Ben away to discreetly snip a lock of his hair, the bitches downstairs start talking about her toes and bad breath. Regardless if this is true, she is still significantly better looking than most of you so… have some perspective. “Perfection is so lame.”

Jubilee scores the next one on one date and offends the girls for calling Ben out on being late and saying shes not that excited for their date. Team fucking Jubilee. Also, did a producer slip Lace some sedatives? What the fucking fuck? Jubilee is NOT down with the caviar but very into hot dogs… I like your innuendos boo. Homegirl gets the rose and I am thrilled.

My absolute favorite moment happens at the rose ceremony when Ben somberly tells the ladies that he lost family friends in a plane crash and 2.4 seconds later Olivia consoles Ben by sharing some of her internal struggles… living with cankles. She tries to stay strong but her ankle radius is the real tragedy of the day. Like sorry about your dead friends but like I CAN NEVER WEAR AN ANKLET.

These bitches get their polyblend panties in a bunch when they see Jubilee giving a Ben a massage when she already has a rose. THIS IS A FUCKING COMPETITION YOU DUMBFUCKS, why would she forego time to expedite another girls relationship with Ben? Fuck off Amber. You are acting like an insecure petty asshole.

Then something truly terrible happens… Lace resurrects and says “Bahn… can I talk to yuh?” In her most mentally stable moments yet, Lady Lace explains that she needs to go home and work on herself. Like her tattoo says “You can’t love someone else, unless you truly love yourself.” And she says she doesn’t love herself which absolutely slaughters me because I LOVE HER ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US. LACE, DON’T GO, DON’T LEAVE ME. LIVE, LAUGH, LACE. So now, I need to go take a bath with my blowdryer because I have no reason to live.

Shushanna and Jami (both of whom I could give a fuck about) leave and I am still in a post-Lace coma. Please respect my privacy during this time of need. Because you know I’m all about that Lace, bout that Lace.


Dear Annoying Couples

I am not nearly as bitter as I make myself out to be. Granted, I self admittedly do NOT think all children or beautiful, don’t get weepy at leaves changing colors and would rather shoot myself in the asshole than watch a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. I can however, get a wee bit mushy when it comes to love. I am cringing even as I TYPE that last sentence. The beauty of dating serial egomaniacs is that when an amazing man comes around you have the right to get a little gooey (internally). This is a very slippery slope for a closeted basic bitch like myself to navigate but once you find proper footing along with your social decency, it’s fairly easy to conclude that those feelings are reserved for you and your partner. Consider this a very passionate and strongly worded letters to people (both male and female) who feel it necessary to annoyingly publish intimate photo’s and declarations of love on social media.

We all know the couple… 18 hours can’t go by without a fucking collage, song lyric, gag-worthy Facebook comment or incredibly awkward photo of your significant other sleeping. PDA on social media is like a bacon wrapped street hot dog… sporadically it can be enjoyable and joyous (especially under the influence of alcohol) but on a daily basis it makes you sick, fat and remorseful.

Here is the issue, while you think you are solely promoting your happiness I would dare to say that doth protest too much. I understand a scattered moment of weakness where you want to scream your undying love at the rooftops, I have been there. What I cannot understand or support are the couples that unconsentually rape my retinas with their ridiculously cheesy and inauthentic declarations of love on social media.

It is always the couples that have either broken up 52 times OR are on the verge that throws a fucking non-milestone Flipagram slideshow into the mix. It’s a very passive aggressive plea to publicly reminisce on better times and quite frankly makes me want to take a shower with a blow dryer. OMG HE BOUGHT YOU A TEDDY BEAR AND SENT YOU A SAD BOUQUET OF CARNATIONS? I literally don’t give a fuck and no one else does either.

If you are a bitch posting articles from Elite Daily like “Why Highschool Sweethearts Make The Best Life Partners” just kill yourself. HOW REVOLUTIONARY. So because some freelance writer suggests that being penetrated by the same person who sat next to you in Geometry before you got your braces off is the best foundation for a life of fidelity and comfort, then you should totes do it. Just know there is a flattering article for EVERYONE and just because it’s applicable doesn’t make it true or worth sharing. OmG yOu GuYs, look aT oUr HiS aNd HeR XmAs sWEaTerS! STAB ME IN THE FOREHEAD PLEASE.

No one cares. NO one cares. NOT ONE PERSON BESIDES YOU FUCKING CARES, NOT AT ALL. You are annoying the fuck out of everyone who knows you and it’s self indulgent and delusional to think anyone besides you two sappy assholes need to be privy your intimate moments.

Here’s the harsh truth… when people are TRULY enjoying themselves, finding a steady handed Asian to capture their loving embrace is the LAST THING on their brain. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, but daily declarations of such are disingenuous and WRONG. How’s that for a poem…

Love you. Mean it.

Center Stage

Everyone should know I am a very responsible drinker. I love having a keg or four of beer with dinner, mimosas on a Sunday and obviously live and breathe for a good dirty martini. Maybe it’s because I am a complete control freak or because I’m completely vain and don’t want to embarrass myself, but I really never get drunk.  When I hit the clubs in my Bebe bandage dress trolling for a Middle-eastern real estate broker with bottle service and yellow lambo ( I am kidding ew), I am in the pursuit of a steady happy buzz not a Courtney Love downward spiral.

The few times I have been slob kabob wasted I busted a heel on a pair of Louboutins, verbally assaulted someone for cutting me in the bathroom line, got in a legitimate fight with my boyfriend about the band Greenday and on my drunkest occasion did an interpretive dance in front of an entire fraternity. Seriously though, If I was ever on the precipice of life or death and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” started playing I would willingly take my own life. It’s nauseating, whiney and nasally as FUCK. Let’s lighten the mood and discuss the time I bared my labia to a frat house shall we?

Freshman year of college I was asked to a winter formal. I was pretty nervous about going since I had just met my date and didn’t know what to expect. Also, he was Israeli and those bitches can get REAL handsy. Somehow I worked out scoring invites for some of my girlfriends so it would be a group outing. I was under the impression the guy who asked me was still sitting comfortable in the friend zone and was not looking to progress our relationship any further.  Prior to the shitshow, my legal cousin and I gallavanted to the local Food For Less for $2.99 bottles of Andre. Like I said, college was never my thing and this is what I would consider an ultimate low point. We started popping the Dom  alcohol infused urine around 1pm and by 4:00pm I was white girl wasted. With the help of my friends, paid professionals and a high pressured hose I got myself barely together by 5pm.

Our dates picked us up and we headed for a group sushi dinner. As they approached my dorm, I was almost positive we were accompanying the cast of Superbad to a sad movie premiere. I had pulled some seriously depressing tail back in the day. My date was wearing a fucking vest…a VEST. I chugged the last of the Andre to ease the blow. We went to some ratchet sushi buffet place and I started throwing raw fish at the walls to see if it would stick… it was pretty cute.

After I gracefully breezed through dinner, we headed to the formal. I was expecting to make an entrance down a double staircase with my name announced like they did on the Titanic. “Miss Jackie Schimmel of Westlake Village, CA. Lover of dogs, sequins and well-intentioned racism”. My entrance was a face plant into a plastic folding chair and the horrid realization that the venue had cottage cheese ceilings and the only food was plastic bowls of Doritos. This obviously prompted me to drink more alcohol to cope with all this AND the fact I had wasted one hell of an outfit. My date was all up on my dick. I needed to ditch him immediately, every time he would try and canoodle me I headed straight to the bar and started canoodling with my real date Andre. After my second bottle of the day I decided to really take this formal to the next level.

All of my close friends tease me for never getting drunk. They think it’s because I am neurotic or worried it will disrupt my digestive issues which is all true but the real reason is this; I get really weird. Not in a cute slutty sorority girl way, in a completely insular, solo mission, awkward way. I think something will be “so hilarious”, fully commit to it and then let no one in on the joke. In this situation, I thought it would be totally hilarious to perform an interpretive dance in front of the whole party.

I went behind the DJ booth, told him to turn off the music and grabbed the mic. I sashayed to the front of the dance floor and immediately jolted the guests with the feedback sound from turning on the mic. I demanded the DJ turn off the music. He was scared and obliged, “What’s up A E Pi!!! Who’s having a good time tonight??!!! CAN I GET A WHUT WHUT FOR ALL MY JEWY BITCHES UP IN HURRRR. Everyone if you could please take a seat and clear the dance floor there is a special performance I would like do for you all to thank you for this shitty party. Let’s DO it. Yeyuhhhh!!!” Clearly no one was enjoying my impromptu disc jockey routine.

It’s no secret that I have entitlement issues. I am uncertain how this has trickled into my comfortability with hostage performances for large groups of strangers but I have made a note to ask my therapist. Reluctantly, people started to clear the floor. Being the hospitable lady that I am, I started going into strangers bedrooms wheeling out desk chairs and bringing patio furniture inside so everyone would have a seat. I was going to make this busted frat house the closest thing to Madison Square Garden humanly possible. I dragged people out of sexual escapades, bathrooms and dark corners. No party guest was left behind – it was like a firedrill, everyone needed to be present.

I took center stage (#JodieSawyer) and cued the DJ to play the song I had asked him to. What proceeded next is all a bit blurry. My song selection was the appropriate Armageddon theme song by Aerosmith “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing” and that irony is not lost on me… From my flashes of memory and debriefing from my loved ones who were present that day, it began with a slow crawl and ended with a leap which sounds super elegant. I even grabbed a stray streamer and had a short but sentimental ribbon dance bit during the bridge. Apparently the DJ tried to phase out the song seeing the sheer horror on my audiences faces and I got back on my mic and screamed “DON’T TURN OFF MY FUCKING SONG. I AM NOT FUCKING FINISHED, THAT’S SO RUDE.” Cute.

I was also wearing a dress that forced me to go to commando so beyond the grand finale split leg leap, there was also an appearance by my vagina. And people ask me why I dropped out of college… The next morning I woke up with bruised arms and a bloody shin which just shows my commitment to the dance. I would walk through campus a sad broken legend and 4 months later I transferred schools and vowed never to drink cheap in excess, go commando or watch Armageddon ever again…

The 10 People on Facebook

The Supportive Acquaintance – Likes ALL. YOUR. SHIT. Despite the fact you and this person BARELY know each other, you appear to be the very best of friends on social media. Sends you super unfunny gifs and you two have been trying to get drinks for 7 years… but it ain’t gonna happen.

The Perpetual Humble Bragger – Whether it’s a promotion to be the manager at Cheesecake Factory, a romantic trip to Mykonos or just a constant reminder how hard it is to be naturally thin, this person just can’t fucking help themselves #SPOILED.

The Ex – To unfriend or not to unfriend, this is the question. Facebook friendship mostly maintained for stalking purposes and to send vague yet passive aggressive messages via status updates like this;

“If it’s over, let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday, so yesterday…”

And you get to troll HARD on their new side bitch. Win win.

The Parent – Doesn’t understand hashtags, loves a good puppy video and posts the same picture an average of 59 times. Most likely to post political, semi-racist and culturally offensive material which creates tension with your quirky Libertarian friend from Los Feliz.

The Shameless Mofo – No birthday wishes, no likes, just un-consensual molestation to your newsfeed with personal vendettas and self promotion– so basically me. Hi! #THEBITCHBIBLE

The Buzzkill – I don’t want to see any bible quotes, sobriety anniversaries, dolphin rape epidemics, terminal illnesses or death announcements on fucking Facebook. Keep in mind this is the same platform for fucking Candy Crush invites. WRONG PORTAL!

The Skanky Hoe – We get it, you’re over your awkward stage and got the lap band surgery. We don’t need to see you, your belly button ring and polyester lingerie set on the reg. This is applicable to men also. Put a fucking shirt on, no one wants to bang a guy at the gym at 2pm on a Tuesday. Get a job.

The Underachiever – Nearing the 9th year of their stint at the local community college, still lives at home and only socializes with people and places in a 4-mile radius of their teenage area code. If you have been in a Junior College longer then you attended high school, it’s time to give up and just become a drug dealer.

The Overachiever – The bastard that graduated from MIT in 2 years, created an app that cures cancer and now is dating Karlie Kloss and only flies private. Just when you are feeling like a baller for getting a new car sans co-signer, you get wind that this person just bought an island. Usually an Indian guy overlooked in high school you wish you paid more attention to. For the record, I luh that Tikka Masala. Call me boo.

The Mormon – Wedding photos, pregnancy photos, dorm renovation photos. Mormons are pleasant as fuck so it’s hard to make fun of them … except they can’t drink but probably cause they are just always pregnant?

Please passive aggressively share and for a play by play of my evening with Taylor Swift (for real) listen to this weeks podcast here:

Bad Blood

Taylor Swift is premiering her new music video this Sunday and every celebrity and Serayah (who is that?) are in this fucking video. I can barely get my 84-year-old Grandma to do my half hour podcast series and Tay Tay’s locked down the entire CAA client list. Rumor is the song is about Katy Perry and I’m hoping for full-blown passive aggressive awesomeness. Secretly I think Taylor is sending a message a la Regina George like “Lol Katy, all these celebrities hate you too! Go hang out with Demi Lovato and be miserable! “

Famous people should literally never complain about anything. You are the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet. Someone recognized me at Target 3 weeks ago so I’m basically a local celebrity but still have managed to stay super down to earth despite my wild success. Let’s be clear, I would do a lot of weird shit to further my career. I’m not above it. I’d fake an illness, lose a limb, gain 400 lbs, smuggle some drugs. Hustle has no moral compass and I’m comfortable with that. I curse the day I was born without any serious physical defects… I’d probably have an endorsement deal by now. OR get cast in this music video.

Maybe I am delusional but I feel like Taylor would really love me. She’d be hesitant at first because I cuss so much and exercise casual racism for shock value but soon she’d use me as an external outlet to say all the things her publicist won’t let her. She’d become super dependent on me and I’d allow it while I secretly poison her cats and decide it was worth the emotional turmoil because we only fly private which I love.

So far we have Gigi Hadid, Cara Delevigne, Jessica Alba, Lena Dunham, Ellie Goulding, Hayley Williams, Ellen Pompeo, Serayah McNeill, Lily Aldridge, Kendrick Lamar, Karlie Kloss​, Zendaya​, Martha Hunt and Hailee Steinfeld​. WHAT THE FUCK IS MARISKA HARGITAY AND ELLEN POMPEO DOING IN HER VIDEO. Who’s next? Fucking Vivica Fox? At least that would make sense cause she would be filling a racial quota. Who the hell do I need to rescue a cat from and bake with to get in this video? I’m coming for you Lorde.


Just when you think Asia couldn’t get anymore annoying, a hotel in Tokyo opens up specifically for women to cry in. If Sanrio goes out of business or the country bans designer fannypacks this hotel is going to be booked solid for a decade.

The Mitsui Garden Yotsuya Hotel is now charging emotionally unstable women for rooms fully stocked with hydrating eye masks, make-up remover, a plethora of sad movies (Nicholas Sparks for days) and even some lotion infused tissues. This makes me want to shank myself in the ovary.

I have always been a huge pioneer woman of the ‘No Crying in Public’ movement because I think crying is like pooping or drinking excessively, best done in the privacy of your own home or well kept public restroom. When I cry, my retinas really glaze and give me this amazing greenish hue, which can be worth the emotional turmoil but I prefer to keep things at bay. Feelings happen, I get it. Too many feelings, and you may end up in Tokyo… here are some warning signs you may need a hotel reservation for the Presidential suite.

You are moved by very regular and common happenings. The first snowflake of winter, a baby bird, the smell of a stranger’s newborn. I like to limit my sentiments to the three D’s: Death, Dumpings and Degrassi.

You hyperbolize (I learned this word during my one and only semester at college) fucking everything. For example, you get stung by a bee so you become hysterical, overdramatize pain, insist you are allergic, make 45 of your closest friends come over to assist with medical treatment, realize you’re fine, then apologize profusely and cry AGAIN because the bee lost its life and vow to volunteer at a beehive preservation fundraiser.

You are constantly apologizing. Bitches with too many feelings are always worried they are bothering people. Probably because they are. I will admit there is something adorably endearing about this. Maybe because I am an ice princess and need a little osmotic feeling? I am not a doctor. Also someone please tell me what “osmotic” means.

You are simultaneously obsessed and revolted by love. Imagine what your social media profiles look like to a distant stalker, visuals are the easiest way to decipher if your emotional pendulum is too active. Do you have sunset romance scenery immediately followed by an Alanis Morissette quote? Pictures of kittens followed by a bonfire burning all your exes clothing?

When you’re up, you’re UP and when you’re down, you’re down. And when you’re not sure, fly to fucking Tokyo and get out of town.

Dear Gwyneth

Dear Gwyneth,

I have been meaning to write to you since you named your child Apple. I will admit that if we ever meet face to face and are in the same tax bracket I will immediately delete this letter and try to penetrate your social circle (and your ex husband). I know you are probably busy finding the latest $780 sweat band to declare a summer MUST HAVE on Goop, but I hope you can take the time to acknowledge some of your recent public glitches.

A couple of months ago you declared in a magazine article that you are “incredibly close to the common woman”. Seeing that your net worth is an estimated $140 million dollars, this is difficult to comprehend. From an Oscar, performing at the Grammy’s, a cookbook, a blow dry bar, your bestie Beyonce and the bane of my existence GOOP, I hate to break it you sweet cheeks you ain’t common.

Most recently, you broadcasted that you would accept the NY Food Stamp challenge and feed your family off $29 for the week. Poverty challenges aren’t like a game of hopscotch you played at your elite sleep away camp. It’s cute that you felt the need to publicly broadcast your Food Stamp Challenge and bring awareness to the cause. However I am not sure they sell organic kale at the local Food for Less. If you wanted to properly fulfill this challenge I have a hot tip for you; Cup a Noodles, economy sized Bagel Bites and a fucking sugar daddy. Girls just want to have funds. Also did you really need to buy 7 organic limes? If this was a first offense, I wouldn’t be writing you but as a fellow blonde Jew with entitlement issues I felt it necessary to offer some insight.

I get as a public figure you are trying to use your platform to spread awareness. For that I will not fault you, however the juxtapose of your attempts to be relatable and your overwhelming pretentious bullshit (hi Goop) makes you completely un-likeable. Like borderline Anne Hathaway status. You have been quoted complaining how hard it is to find a bikini wax in Paris, how your children gravitate towards organic produce and nuts and that whole “conscious uncoupling” nightmare I JUST CAN’T. Goopers also delighted us with this recent quote…

“I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year.” THEN DON’T GWYNETH, JUST DON’T.

I mean, Country Strong is the best movie of all time so for that I thank you. Yes, I have the soundtrack and no I am not ashamed. Gwyneth – even the way you spell your name is pretentious. You’re delusion is oddly inspiring. From gallavanting about Europe with your macrobiotic green juice, hawking $1300 pinky rings and casually using the verb “imbibe” in one of your Goopy (and gaggy) newsletters – keep doing you girl. And have Moses call me in 8 years.

Love always,


PS Gwennie, freshly shaved truffles are actually NOT available at most supermarkets.

Manic & Menstrual

I was trying to keep my posts semi inspirational and heart warming since I am going to speak at my high school tomorrow and want to give off the appeal that I am a well adjusted young professional but …. It’s raining and I am menstrual. Sorry kids! I figured I would spare the sappy shit and stay true to myself and discuss some things really grinding my gears (I am positive that saying has just aged me 30 years #maturity).

YONCE– I ain’t tryna get stung by the Beyhive but I miss the days when Beyoncé would sing good ol pop music with a professionally made music video and a fan blowing through her hair while she dances. Stop trying to get all HOVA-fied and just fucking sing. OR call those wet blankets Kelly and Michelle and get Tina to crank out some coordinating sequined outfits and kick it old school. I’m over this low budge shit. I blame Blue Ivy…

INSTA-DOUCHE – If 65% of a guy’s Instagram pics are in black and white, captioned by urban song lyrics OR harbor the hashtag #riseandgrind they should be put down. We get it… you drive a super tight Mitsubishi with black rims, have a SICK faux leather jacket and are on your way to that #jetsetlyfe taking over your father’s kabob chain. LEAVE ME AND MY INNOCENT HEART ALONE.

UNMEDICATED CHILDREN – Some kids just need to be put on a leash. Calm down.

GLUTEN FREE – I literally could not care less about anything. Celiac disease is 75% trendy and 100% a waste of my time. If I have to listen to some Fox News correspondent discuss the DANGER OF GLUTEN while prancing around in a size 0 Ann Taylor Loft shift dress I am going to stab myself in the eye balls with uncooked spaghetti.

CHRISTMAS MUSIC – I don’t want to seem like a scrooge BUT all this Christmas music is expediting my impending Lexapro prescription. Between the hymns, the rancid Cinnamon Sugar candles, poinsettias and Mall Santa’s (hand selected from the Megan’s Law roster) a bitch is one jingle bell away from snapping.

TURKEY – I know this may seem a bit irrelevant now that Turkey day has passed but … Turkey is the redheaded stepchild of festive proteins. The best a turkey can be is “not dry” and anything you need to soak in flavored water for 2 days before cooking seems disappointing.

PUMP RULES – For those of you not watching this show, you are missing out on a whole life-altering world of sub-par accessorizing, cottage cheese ceiling studio apartments, failed acting careers and Sauvignon Blanc out of puffy painted wine glasses. It is a beautiful nightmare that consumes me and last week someone asked me for a picture that I nearly shit myself out of excitement; only to find out they thought I was Stassi fucking Schroeder.

Deep breaths.

Sunday Frustrations

Hello, bitches. If I see one more Sunday Funday instagram picture I am going to lose it. Boohoo the weekend is over. Mondays are fucking amazing for two reasons in particular A. It is the day I always allege I am going to start my “2014 health plan” (I should mention this *health plan doesn’t include any form of exercise regimen and only means attempting to not have carbs for every meal of the day #fitness – also, this health plan was supposed to start in 2010 and has yet to be completed) and b. TELEVISION OF THE GODS: THE BACHELORETTE, RHOC, LADIES OF LONDON. It is all too much.

I literally told my mom last week “If Ladies of London doesn’t get a Season 2 I am going to kill myself in front of the whole family.” Andy Cohen, please take that threat seriously… I have so much more life to live and don’t envision myself kicking the bucket before 30 wrapped in a British flag, singing the Ladies of London theme song with a Caroline Stanbury inspired platinum bob – but I will fucking do it. For those of you who have no clue what I am talking about I suggest you do yourself a favor and hit up your DVR stat. After being lured out of my cage and forced to be weekendy social I always start off my week seriously irritated…

Juicy Fruit – What a sad excuse for a gum. Firstly, it loses flavor quicker then the person chewing it loses their dignity and second it tastes like ass, plaster and stale fruit juice. And yes, I realize juice doesn’t go STALE so fuck off vocab police. I also find this is the gum selection of under-achievers and that is a truth you need to deal with. This gum is targeted for the person who doesn’t aspire to minty fresh breath and also doesn’t mind being taken advantage of due to its disappointing taste longevity. Think about it.

Crudités – For those of you living under a rock or engaging in sexual relations with a first cousin – Crudités is an incredibly pretentious word for a veggie platter. I would like to make it clear that anything sold in a plastic tray at fucking 7-11 does not merit a silent “s” or this fancy of a name. I was at a very distant friend of a friend’s house last week when the host kindly offered up some “Crudités” and a huge part of my already nonexistent soul started to die. REALLY?!? Stop. Please.

Pet Birds – I consider myself an animal lover if you excuse birds, reptiles, sharks and most sea mammals out of the equation. Listen, I have been very vocal about my distaste for cats. Many of my best friends love them and Taylor Swift is probably fucking one as we speak. One thing I do appreciate about those assholes is that they eat birds and for that I will be forever grateful. I can say with full confidence if I met Ryan Gosling and he took me home to his gorgeous piece of real estate and I spotted a pet bird I would run for the fucking hills. It takes a real weirdo to select a BIRD as your pet of choice. It’s equivalent to having a pet rat and I just can’t associate with people who think it’s okay. Unless you can advance my career in any way … which in the case I totally love pet birds.

@MileyCyrus – Listen I am guilty for being totally into this twerking train wreck that is Miley Cyrus. Her vakakta front teeth, creepy as shit dad, and her little dykey haircut. I get it – she’s a “genius” (why does everyone say that?) I realize she is laughing and probably air humping all the way to the bank. COOL. Last night I unfollowed Miley on Instagram and truly have never felt more liberated in my life. If I had to see one more picture of her ravey and weird as fuck arts and crafts projects I was literally going to lose my mind.

Not A Girl Not Yet a Woman…

Being a woman of the arts, I try and only follow my own blog to keep my view uninfluenced – plus I only try and garner hits for myself #duh.  I may be privy to scamming Buzzfeed here and there but I sure as fuck will not be taking a quiz on which Disney Princess or Imported Cheese I would be anytime soon (at least not publicly #imaburrata). This morning I was drawn to a particular article I saw being shared like a mofucka all over my newsfeed. The article is called “10 Signs You’re Dating a Woman – Not a Girl” written by Paul Hudson. Articles like these are usually ALWAYS written by men and make women’s ovaries explode like fireworks on the 4th of July. Let’s keep shit real – unless you spend a week bleeding and cramping monthly, have had a brazilian bikini wax or spent one night out in a pair of 6-inch Louboutins it’s hard for me to take any man writing about the inner workings of the female psyche and reasoning seriously. Why do we wear 6 inch heels that make our feet bleed? Because they make our legs and ass look amazing and flats can only take you so far… fucking duh. I doubt any man understands this logic therefore I sure as shit don’t care you assessment on what differentiates a “girl” from a “woman. Here are the 10 “obvious giveaways” to tell the difference – because ALL women are just so one dimensional that we can all be classified by bullet points…

1. Girls like to dress in revealing clothes because they think they look sexy – women know they look sexy no matter what they wear. I mean… seriously? I wear revealing clothing when I want to feel sexy and confident. As far as I am concerned my boobs will never be perkier or my thigh gap wider so if I feel like wearing a skanky dress OR feel it’s socially acceptable to wear pajamas out and about who cares? Sexy is in the eye of the beholder. Shut up Paul.

2. Girls expect their men to know how they feel and what they’re thinking – women use their words. I believe in many situations silence speaks more words. This article is proof that you can use a thousand words and not really be saying anything of importance. Communication is a luxury, one that women excel at. Perhaps boys aren’t worthy of such gifts and therefore get the silent treatment.

3. Girls expect you to pay the tab – women are financially independent. You can be a female zygote and be financially independent. It’s called chivalry dumbass.

4. Girls go out and get wasted – women can hold their liquor and know their limits. You can mess with my revealing outfits, predict my finances but NOBODY puts baby on a liquor limit.

5. Girls can’t wait to update their Facebook status to “In a relationship” – women forget they have a Facebook. Perhaps you have never had a woman be proud enough to publicly declare your union? Really?

6. Girls watch junk TV – women read. OH NO HE DIDN’T. Pardon me? So know you are not a woman if you watch junk tv? We as human beings have a RIGHT to escape into the mindless world of reality television. If I want to do literary analysis of Edgar Allen Poe OR want to watch Teresa Giudice flip a table it ain’t nobodies business.

7. Girls talk about trivial matters – women know how to hold a stimulating conversation. Gag me.

8. Girls eat salads – women eat whatever the hell they want. Really? So. Fucking. Stupid.

9. Girls stick to what they know – women are always searching to widen their horizons. I feel like this is an extension of the above “giveaway” I am sure women eating whatever the hell they want are definitely widening their horizons.

10. Girls need guardians – women don’t need anybody but themselves. So basically we should be alone, eating a rib eye, reading a history book, wearing a turtleneck and widening our horizons (whatever that means) and we can all be women – hear us roar bitches.


This is the dumbest shit I have ever read. Ladies… please stop posting articles like this. According to the author of this post, sharing this article actually makes you unwomanly because real woman don’t even have TIME for Facebook… ironic no?

I am not some feminist pioneer woman but I find it degrading and mostly just stupid that we would even define ourself as a real “woman” because we eat fucking salad and don’t update our Facebook page? Maybe a bitch just wants to get ready for bikini season and shamelessly stalk a sexy coworker? Pretty sure I have done both of these girl branding activitiesand according to my Rabbi, I have been a woman since 13… bitch.

Daily Disgruntles

I am sure this is a huge shock to you but I am one highly irritable bitch. Everynight I wake up at 3am (the witching hour) and my mind races. I think about what I am going to eat for breakfast, pray that my constant state of constipation will subside, wonder if am I still the highest bidder for those Miu Miu heels I’ve been dying for, contemplate why glue doesn’t stick to the inside of the bottle, consider selling my eggs for 30k to give me some extra cash flow. The list goes on and on. I also start to think about shit that REALLY pisses me off. If I was an intellectual and deep bitch, I am sure I would be upset with people who litter, steal, are racist, antisemitic, don’t recycle – whatever. For the record, recycling confuses the FUCK out me. I’m a one-bin woman if you catch my drift… Unfortunately, these are not factors that keep me up at night. I tend to jot these discrepancies (no idea what that word means) down on my notepad I keep on my nightstand. This morning I decided to delight in my mid-night bitch fests and see some things that have really been pissing me off lately.

Bebe – This place is a rhinestoned tracksuit selling, polyester bodycon dress pushing, mesh insert whoring HELL. The name is appropriate because just hearing it makes me want to go buy a BEBE gun and shoot myself in the trachea until my larynx bleeds to death. For research purposes, I went into Bebe last week to see how they were doing. The second I got the whiff of the store’s fragrance (a blend of daddy drama, overdraft fees and acrylic nails) I immediately felt like I needed to slap on some lip liner, buy a Coach bag and start drinking fucking Moscato spritzers. How does this place even stay in business? The salesperson proudly exclaimed they had just got plenty of new summer dresses (SHOOT ME) and insisted I try on this tragic polyblend maxi dress because after 2.6 seconds of first impressions “it totally looks like your style”. I have never been more offended in my entire life… literally.

Small Children – Not to sound like an asshole, but I am not one of those women who thinks every child is cute. In fact, I have met many a kinder that I strongly feel should be quarantined in a cage. Certainly not at a nice restaurant shitting themselves at the table over while I am trying to shove truffle pizza down. It’s called a babysitter… or a crib with a lid on it. I know I will be totally obsessed with my own children but can’t pretend that they are all adorable. They just aren’t. What kind of twisted reality are we creating for the next generation if we blindly fawn over them regardless of their personality, looks or wit? Then you have the friend who fucking INSISTS you spend hours on youtube watching every dancing baby video the internet has to offer. So you sit in gridlock, watching a baby dancing and singing for 4 minutes too long while everyone LAWLS their ass off. Unless the climax of this video is the mediocre looking baby walking into a screen door or being humped by a puppy, I am not interested. Chill your ovaries.

Exercise – It is not that I am against physical fitness… it’s just that I have a lot better things to do. I know every girl in LA prides themselves on cardio barre, spin class, pilates and fucking juice cleanses. Mazel tov bitches. I have bigger fish to fry. I get plenty of cardio in (you should see me at a sample sale) and can work a Lululemon sweat suit with the best of them but give me a break. Also, it’s just so boring to talk about. We all want to be skinny bitches, I so get it and I surprisingly take relatively good care of myself. I am shallow like a kiddie pool and take pride in my 4 finger thigh gap but bitches be busy and sorry kittens, can’t make it to fucking Soul Cycle. I have shit to do.

Ariana Grande – Okay her voice is next level insane. And if she ends up recording one of my boyfriends songs I will have to probably delete this but listen… doesn’t she seem like such a C-U-Next-Tuesday? And why does she always look so fucking worried. Those eyes, she is going to have to inject the fuck out of her forehead. And that hair. I mean I know my tresses are only comparable to an over processed tumble weed diluted with extensions from some Ukrainian bitch but STILL – what is happening over there? Not to sound like Willow Smith but I be needing that hoe to whip her hair back and forth. I just don’t get it.

Candy Crush – If I see one more notification on Facebook alerting me that some dumbfuck I went to middle school with got to the next level of Candy Crush I am going to delete my Facebook account (just kidding – I need the free portal to self promote). I have never played Candy Crush but if I did I sure as fuck wouldn’t be publishing it on my newsfeed at 1pm on a WORK DAY. Gentlemen, some words of wisdom: if you ever want to get laid… please don’t invite a bitch to play Candy Crush, Farmville, Words with Friends, Angry Birds or whatever uninspiring app you are diddling away at in your mothers basement. It’s just not sexy. It’s called mystery people.

Dopplegangers – You literally can’t give yourself a celebrity doppelgänger without looking like a total asshole. To publicly declare that you look just like Kate Upton when you really look like Kirstie Alley circa 2008 is just embarrassing. And let’s say by chance you DO look eerily similar to a particular celebrity… it is still not okay. I’d like to think I look like a young Michelle Pfeiffer with Adriana Lima’s body but let’s be real, that is a huge crock of bullshit.




Friday Frustrations

EDIBLE ARRANGEMENTS – Yesterday one of my coworkers got sent an edible arrangement from a “secret admirer”. The only thing creepier then sending an edible arrangement is sending an ANONYMOUS edible arrangement… like what the fuck? Here is a bouquet of phallic shaped fruit blooming from a bed of kale. Let’s bang! NO. Cantaloupe shaped like genitalia on a skewer is not sexy. And if you are thinking about sending this to a woman you are even slightly interested in you are better off just sending her your ACTUAL genitalia because sending an edible arrangement is basically doing the same thing only less gallant. I can’t even decide whether it is better baller up the extra money to get the “chocolate dipped” phallic fruit (for the lady with jungle fever) or if it just makes it even more despicable. I would literally be sent roadkill then an edible arrangement – at least I could use the roadkill for a chic hand muff.

FEDORAS – I love a panama hat, live for a good beanie and generally believe in the theory the bigger the brim the BETTER. There is nothing worse than a middle aged Armenian woman who smells like beef kabobs leaning over your shoulder to read your Us Weekly. Large brims are the ultimate close talker buffer and clearly serve a purpose. Fedora’s make you look like a jackass.

“CUPS” – Let me be clear. I love Anna Kendrick, I think we could be really good friends. She’s funny, not intimidatingly good looking and down to earth. That doesn’t mean the song “Cups” doesn’t make me want to hurl my body off a cliff in the hopes of plummeting to my own death. The song is beyond gay and if I have to see one more middle aged parent post their daughter re-enacting the song with a fucking red cup on my Facebook newsfeed I am going to punch someone in the trachea. When I am driving and hear it on the radio I have to literally grip my steering wheel to control the urge to drive into oncoming traffic. Yes, I feel THAT strongly about it. When you’re gone… when you’re gone… I WONT FUCKING MISS YOU WHEN YOUR GONE “CUPS” STOP PLAYING ON THE RADIO.

NEKNOMINATION – The first time I heard about this was on the news where they reported 5 deaths associated with this new internet trend. Personally, I think the news story was slightly blown out of proportion and put a huge black cloud over the whole concept for me. In reality I am just super pissed no one has nominated me yet. Despite the fact that I love a stiff cocktail I am a notoriously slow sipper. In my head I have my whole neknomination skit planned and because there is no way in HELL I could chug a beer in 20 seconds I would definitely have the air time to simultaneously perform some kind of variety show whilst finishing my brew. I can assure you it would be the best to date so someone fucking nominate me already @jackieschimmel #shameless.

AVIVA DRESCHER – I have been binge watching Real Housewives of New York until I literally get drunk through osmosis from Ramona Singer. I think it is seriously the most underrated series within the franchise and I am foaming at the mouth with excitement for Tuesdays premiere. I tend to love all the housewives in different ways. Even the one’s I hate I still love deep down for providing so many hours of entertainment. The only housewife I truly hate is Aviva Drescher – she is HORRIFIC. I don’t give a fuck that she got trapped in a conveyer belt as a child. When I re-watched the episodes of the ladies in St. Barths I literally almost died reliving her insane narcissism. She actually said upon her arrival “I was expecting a banner that said Congratulations, you did it! RA RA” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING? Your bravery is so inspiring. You got on a private plane despite your phobias to come join the ladies on a luxury vacation in a multimillion dollar villa. WOW.  I mean there are men and women on the front lines in Afghanistan protecting our country but what you did really is so commendable. Go fuck yourself and your one leg.

Ghandi Never Had a Facebook…

It’s no secret that I am very easily irritated. I have expressed my serious and at times life threatening disdain for dumb people time and time again. There really is nothing worse than being a dumb fuck, unless you are an ugly dumb fuck and then you are really screwed. In a world tainted by excess emoji’s, improper use of “ LOL” (ladies, you really don’t need to say LOL after every sentence…calm down) and 6+ years of community college being socially acceptable DUMB is everywhere. Yes, I realize I didn’t go to college but fuck off. I may not have a college degree but my shoe game is on point and I fucking bought them all myself.

Let me clarify, you could be a Yale graduate and still be fucking dumb. I use the term dumb in the simplest form. Being smart in my perception is knowing how you feel, what you think and what you know while being able to comprehend the intricacies of the three and articulate yourself accordingly. Fuck, that sounds deep but you know what I mean. Ironically on the other side of the spectrum, things don’t get much better. Because if there is anything more annoying in the world than a dumb bitch, it’s the wannabe intellectual bitch…

Last week I got in a bit of an internet tussle – shocker– with someone who was not too pleased with one of my Facebook statuses. The status read “Juan Pablo is the ultimate short bus escapee”. To be fair on the ranking system of some of the other shit I write this was pretty mild. Is it nice to make short bus jokes? Probably not. Do I still standby my statement? Yes. Said person expressed that it was ignorant of me to make a short bus joke because it was degrading to the people who ride them. Personally, I find that to be a huge generalization. There are many occasions when one could find themselves in a short bus. Perhaps a small group is going wine tasting, maybe a small club soccer team is traveling somewhere and doesn’t want to pay full price for a bus? Just saying.

Understanding that my sense of humor does not always translate and perhaps my short bus joke was not in the best taste, I issued him a sincere apology and went about my day. For the next 45 minutes I was engaged in a full out social debate on my fucking Facebook page. I tried to remain as dignified and classy as possible but what the fuck? I apologized a total of 3 times (so I’ve met my yearly quota) I have a fucking job, and an apartment, and a dog, and a fucking Neiman Marcus account. I don’t have time to have this dialogue with you – ESPECIALLY on Facebook. Here is my truth – I wish I was cool enough to not have a Facebook. But then how the fuck would I shamelessly self promote my businesses.  Like I said “I have many intellectual thoughts, but none that will ever be read on Facebook” or this blog for that matter.

To be clear I am proud of 99% of my words and 100% of my thoughts. Now only 43% of my thoughts ever get translated to actual words because I have one sick sense of humor and would like to still get invited to parties.  So you can do the math on that.

If the only portal you have to express your deep thoughts and wisdom is on Facebook, you may need to re-evaluate some of your life choices. There is this girl who posts mindless “words of wisdom” on hourly intervals to my news feed mainly involving the environment and our non appreciation for it. I have never been into the green movement unless you are referring to the latest Gucci collection that is showcasing delicious hues  of emerald so you can go ahead and cool it with the environmentalism. If you are such an activist why don’t you get off your ass (which I’m sure is quaintly perched on the sofa in your mother’s house where you still reside at 26) and go fucking volunteer. Or go bang Sara McLaughlin and all of her three legged cats. You are not Ghandi, your attempt at wisdom is UNINSPIRING and your shift at Jamba Juice is about to start.

Haute Mess Lesson: If your only intellectual reprieve is publishing vague and plagiarized quotes on the same portal that contaminates us with fucking Farmville and Candy Crush invites… you clearly need to find a new platform. Kisses baby boo.