Dear DJ James Kennedy (Part Duex)

Dear DJ James Kennedy,

Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.

As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?

From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.

I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.

Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.

Love always,

Jackie

Dear Brooks Ayers

Dear Brooks Ayers,

Firstly, I must thank you for blocking me on Twitter. There is no way I could truly illustrate all the ways you disgust me in 140 characters so a public letter is really the only way to go. I have always said you should never trust a man in light wash denim and I want to thank you for proving this theory true. Also Brooks, you look like you shouldn’t be permitted within 650 feet of any elementary school so congratulations on that.

It is one thing to fake a relative’s death to avoid dinner plans. I do that shit ALL the time, my great Aunt Esther has already died 8 times conveniently when a Nancy Meyers movie is on and I have an open bottle of Vueve. It’s a whole other level of vile to lie about having fucking CANCER. To even concoct such a story you have to be the sickest of fucks.

What makes you a real scumbag is that you not only LIED about a diagnosis, you then solidified your corruptness by doctoring fake medical records. What a fucking moron. This is 2015; we have cars that drive themselves. You think no one is going to disprove your faux illness because you give your side bitch Vicki daily affirmations? You are a pussy. I hope a stray cow roaming outside the low income duplex where you live in Montana shoves it’s hoof up your ass and knocks a veneer out.

I desperately hope Vicki was not in on this hoax, as I have loved Vicki passionately ever since she assaulted that poor Asian man for the “family van” incident of 2008. I have loved her age-inappropriate party dresses, her chin and her heinous kitchen rooster forever. Love is blind, but not that fucking blind.

People die from cancer. You have not just insulted people who are battling this life threatening disease but also the families suffering and undermining the hard work of physicians everywhere. I am not “going to pray for you” Brooks because you are an asshole and you need more than a bedside prayer. Jesus may forgive you but I sure as fuck don’t. Go fuck yourself Brooks, because probably no one else will you evil hillbilly.

Love always (not),

Jackie

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.

#RHONJ RECAP

These past couple episodes have been such a cock tease. I have lost at least 3 pounds anticipating Jacqueline’s return and waiting for this Santa ménage à trois shit to hit the fan. The twins, Dina and Melissa head to Boca Raton to hang out with Jewish geriatrics, cook for themselves and drink in excess. They call that a vacation? I call that Rosh Hashanah.

Back in the swampland, Tre and Gia go house hunting in the hopes of downsizing. I personally live for Teresa Giudice, circa 2008: table flipping, pre-owned house shkeeving, and all “onyx, marble and granite”.

Oh yay… Amber and Jim. I have been trying to mentally block them out for the past month and a half and I nearly spiral into a panic attack every time Amber comes onto my television screen with her vakakta contour and silver eyeliner. I realize that is probably in poor taste to say, given that she is going to get tested for cancer but…

Next we see Kathy and Jacqueline yet ALL I can think about is Ashlee Holmes. I have trouble sleeping every night knowing that she has more twitter followers then yours truly. I wonder what color her hair is, or whether she has gotten any new tattoos. Does she still wear her slumpy knit beanie and legging combo? Love and light bitch. But much to my dismay – no Ashlee cameos.

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In Boca, the bitches lay poolside while Melissa does her best white swan leaping around the pool and putting her bod #OnDisplay.

Back at the Lauritas, Jacqueline has only been back for 4 minutes and is already reading texts and crying per usual. Honey, I love you like a distant reality star, but why must you interject yourself in her situation? Ladies, don’t you think Tre has bigger fish to fry than to console YOU during HER time of chaos? Get it together and cry on the inside like a winner.

Back in Boca, Dina gives a Meryl Streep worthy performance faking excitement for Amber and Jim the troll’s arrival. I give the same performance every time someone asks me if I like their new Coach bag… “Yaaaah. That is great!”

I want Melissa to be drunk all the time.

Dina Manzo states that she watches porn for the décor… come again? Pun unintended. Does Dina have a liking for busted sofas, shit drywall and un-chic Lucite? Now I am sweating balls waiting for Dina to drop the Reno-Santa lovers tryst rumor.

And I am blue balled AGAIN… until next week bitches. Bye! Is bye a threat?

Friend Zone

Many have said it is impossible for men and women to have strictly platonic relationships. I have disputed this since I have many close male friends that I wouldn’t touch sexually with a 23 foot pole while wearing a SARS mask but I admit it would be nice to think they are all secretly in love with me. To recount the lengths I have discussed my backed up digestive system, they have bared witness to my verbal abuse or the way I can shove a Bloomin Onion down I am acutely certain this is just not the case. Nowadays with dating websites, tinder, instagram and all these other fuckloads of ways to meet people, it is often easier to retreat from technology and reassess your pool of friends for a potential love interest. I am adamant that you should never be “looking” for a boyfriend or girlfriend because that scent is as pungent and desperate as Kathy Griffin performing a cable special.

Women are more emotional beings and naturally more used to having deeper relationships. I have literally met someone and 15 minutes later am literally talking them off of the cliff from their recent breakup while they cry in my arms and run black tears on my white chiffon top. I wanted to tell her to cry on the inside like a winner and invest in some waterproof mascara but I am a lady booming with compassion. Women just have the ability to be vulnerable and emotional so it is easier and more common for them to form extensive alliances. I am sure there is a statistic somewhere that goes along with my theory but I don’t give a flying fuck to find it #google.

Because of this lost statistic, I believe that men are the primary tenants of the “friend zone”. After building a connection with a female as a friend and genuinely learning to enjoy their company, there is always a moment when the penis gets a perking and thinks “Hmmm… I like to chill and hang. Maybe we should bang?” I seriously live for a good rhyme #thelittlethings. Tapping into your women’s intuition we then recognize our pals pique of interest and we pounce. Simple “hey” turns into “hey you ;)” and our ovaries explode like Fukushima. So you invite them over, polish of a bottle of wine or two and selfishly take advantage of the fact that you KNOW they are secretly in love with you. Usually initiated by ALSO KNOWING your ex boyfriend got a hot new girlfriend so you hate your life, are living for #TBT so you can finally post pics of yourself pre-freshman 15 and just REALLY need an ego stroke. It’s not commendable but we have all done it.

Here is the kicker… once you penetrate you are never just “friends”. You are now “friends who bang” which is weird, unnatural and just fucking awkward. Friends don’t fornicate. It becomes a guessing game for outsiders “will they or won’t they” and ultimately ends in dating, some bullshit façade of “friendship” or total deterioration of the relationship. You can try and pretend you  aren’t imagining their undescended testicle while you shop for new duvet covers, act excited to go out to brunch with him and his new girlfriend or insist that you guys are totally like “brother and sister”. Unless you live in buttfuck Kentucky – none of that shit is going to fly. So kittens, before you decide to walk the rocky terrain of friends turned lovers remember the Friend Zone isn’t the worst place to be. And just know once you see their pee-pee, staying “just friends” is creepy.