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.


Jackie’s Easy Ramen Recipe

As far as I have been responsible for feeding myself, I have had a deep and steadfast affinity for all noodles. They are cheap, never go bad and versatile. I don’t give a fuck what Marie Osmond, Jillian Michaels or your gluten free roommate tells you… carbs are NOT the enemy. I get aroused by a good pasta and if you learn to make it at home for yourself, you can cut out a lot of the fatty, unhealthy bullshit ingredients restaurants add (same goes with salad dressing). Last night I experimented with an old friend of a noodle, Ramen, and was pleasantly tickled.

I haven’t cooked Ramen in years because it takes me back to a dark place… college. I know being that I am just 39% basic, one would assume I loved college and was in a sorority and like shared hotel rooms in Vegas to go to some day club cause I knew the promoter…but no. I fucking hated college. Hence while I only made it about a year and a half. I spent the better part of my collegiate days ditching class, doctoring fake report cards to send to my dad to see if fake straight A’s could wrangle me a few extra hundred a month, watching Barefoot Contessa, then going to Food for Less in pursuit of discount Branzino.

Unfortunately, once mid-month hit I usually had to resort to one fucking thing to sustain my beastly appetite, Ramen. So as you can imagine, we have a very sentimental and indifferent relationship, Ramen and I.

Last night, I went back in time along with a more highly developed culinary touch and gave my 5 year old emergency Ramen package a go and here is the easiest, most delicious, cheap, healthy asian noodle dinner you have ever tasted. Fuck you Ina.

What you need (for one serving #allbymyself #dontjump) 1 package of ramen noodles, 2 small heads of baby bok choy, handful of kale, 2 handfuls of shitake mushrooms (or whichever you like), 2 small thai peppers, ginger, 5 cloves of garlic, 1 shallot, ¼ lb of steak (I used stir fry style), one egg, teriyaki sauce, 1 ½ cups of veggie broth, fish sauce, low sodium soy sauce, lime, chives.

  1. Soft boil an egg in pot of boiling water, 6 minutes is perfection erection, remove shell and rinse under cool water to stop cooking, put aside.
  2. In same water (#resourceful) cook your ramen noodles about 3 minutes, throwout the flavoring packet – that shit will leave you bloated until 2018.
  3. Strain noodles and set aside.
  4. Over medium heat, add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, 5 cloves of chopped garlic, half a thumb worth of peeled and chopped fresh ginger, 2 thai peppers (scrape out the insides these fuckers are HOTT) and half of a shallot chopped. Sautee until translucent.
  5. Peel leaves of the bok choy (throw out the tough inside part) and add to the ginger/garlic and toss until they soften about 2 minutes.
  6. Add mushrooms, sautee another 2 minutes.
  7. Add vegetable broth, few dashes of soy sauce, few dashes of fish sauce, juice and zest of half a lime and handful of kale, stire and let simmer on low heat until shit gets hott and all veggies are soft and wilted
  8. In separate pan heat up tablespoon of olive oil and add meat of your liking, sautee just lightly so meat does not get touch, add a dash of teriyaki to give some sweetness and throw in some sesame seeds if you got em.
  9. Add your ramen noodles and egg to the hot broth to reheat and then pour into a bowl. Slice the soft boiled egg in half and place on top.
  10. Add meat, handful of chopped chives, remaining raw shallot, lime wedge or zest on top of noodles and thank me later.


Eff 2016

Most people say the Holidays are the season of love, joy and spirit. If there is ever a part of my year that makes me hate everyone and everything it’s this very time. Something about a festive acrylic nail, caramel popcorn, and the misuse of sequins compasses the opposite effect for me.

So we made it through Hanukkah/Christmas. I only had to acquire like 4 gift receipts, an art of which I have mastered … for distant relatives a simple “I love this discounted Warm Vanilla Sugar bath set that will make me smell like I’m from a broken home in Riverside – but I am allergic to jojoba oil” always does the trick.

After my exchanges are made, I have digested the 542 latkes impregnating me AND made a quick visit to my therapist to work through a serious altercation with my neighbor who has yet to take down her glittered Jack-o-lanterns from Halloween AND decided to put both a nativity scene and a fucking LIGHT UP REINDEER on our communal grass area (I hope you read this, I hate you so much) – New Years was lurking.

I have and always will have a serious distaste for New Years.  New Years is a real dick because it kickstarts this faux soul searching that I just can’t with. You should know that with every polyblend bandage dress, plagiarized inspirational quote and 2015 collage a part of my soul dies. If you suck, your year is going to suck. That’s a bit harsh, medical traumas excluded – that shit isn’t your fault. But honestly, save your inspirational quotes for a sad plank of wood to hang in your kitchen right next to your bowl of potpourri (horrible).

People who are really into New Years Eve are the same people that have a default picture that was taken 6 years ago and try to consign their Juicy sweatpants because they “still have value”. For the record, I chopped up my Juicy tracksuits over a decade ago and made the terrycloth wardrobe travesty into rags that I use when I bleach my bathtub and toilets.

To be honest, I still think of years in terms of school years so the pomp and celebratory nature of bringing in the New Year is totally lost on me. Firstly, I had a great year so I am not looking to entirely re-jig my format. Granted, I could work on some type of public filtering system (like not using the adjective “cunty” with strangers) and it wouldn’t kill me to try and be more social… I’m fucking kidding, my anti-social nature is my favorite thing about myself #neverchange.

Here’s the truth, some people wake up everyday and give it 100% and I prefer to hover at an attainable 83% so by the time January 1st rolls around I feel content in my slightly above average functionality. Set the bar low, and how far you can go!

Another thing that I will never understand is people who let a manufactured holiday initiate a Ramona Singer inspired renewal. People start issuing insincere apologies and faux forgiveness so they can bust into 2016 tOteZ dRaMz FrEe, Korbel in hand. Some pseudo religious life ruiner said that forgiveness is unconditional… only assholes say shit like that. Here’s an idea … don’t fuck up badly enough that people WON’T forgive you. If someone chooses not to forgive you, it’s probably still your fault.

I am not proud of all my actions this year, back in October I had a 3 week klepto stint at CVS. It’s not my fault if they have a malfunctioning self checkout system and a Sally Hansen Quick Dry nail polish slips into my shopping bag. And maybe some travel sized deep conditioner. But I am not apologizing and in return don’t expect forgiveness from the Beauty Department Supervisor.

So as we embrace 2016 with open arms, abused livers and as you dust off your Bebe dress and return it to it’s garment bag (NOT) in the back of your closet, just remember if you were an asshole in 2015, you will probably still be an asshole in 2016. Happy New Year.

Bro You Basic

As a society and a generation, the past year has been dedicated to ridiculing the yoga-pant wearing, frappucino sucking, Marilyn Monroe quote posting Viking that IS the basic bitch. We chastise her for loving Yankee Candles and thinking red roses are tasteful. Being on the frontline of feminism (not) I decided it was my civil duty to shed light to an equally offensive group of millennials roaming the earth; the basic bro. GASP. Are you worried you are dating a basic bro? Here are some tried and true characteristics of the BB.

Flip-flops When I think of flip-flops, I think of guys in Quicksilver swim trunks holding a neon beach towel with a fucking dolphin on it and the whole visual makes me really upset. I understand that whilst poolside a mandal is convenient but if you’re a bro that’s consistently wearing flip-flops your mom bought you at Tilly’s you are basic and probably not getting laid.

Car Accessories If you are driving a fucking Mitsubishi with custom rims, racing stripes and a spoiler not only are you basic you are also everything that is wrong with society. I DON’T CARE IF YOU PIMPED YOUR YARIS OUT, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. I dare you to take one more picture of your Hyundai and post it on Instagram, seriously I fucking dare you.

Bottle Décor If you walk into a guys house and see an arrangement of 10+ empty bottles of alcohol displayed as home décor, first steal something from his medicine cabinet and then promptly leave. Let me be clear, having 2 empty bottles of Barefoot Pinot Grigio, 3 empty bottles of Andre and an empty handle of Svedka is not something to be proud of. What is the psychology behind this? Is it in attempt to let people know that you are DoWn To RagE hard aNy dAy ThAt ends iN y? Go fuck yourself.

Crossfit I’ll say it once, I’ll say it again. I don’t give a fuck and a half about crossfit. It’s really cool that you can do a 20 minute head stand and pull a car or whatever but like, I think it’s a misdirected use of discipline. If you are doing competitions and walking around with cinderblocks tied to your ankles but can’t afford HBO, it is time to reprioritize.

Gatorade The male equivalent of the Pumpkin Spice Latte. Duh.

Vegas Vegas is the holy land for basic bros and bitches alike, it’s basically Jerusalem. Bitches put on their polyblend bandage dresses, guys put on their Armani Exchange button downs and gross “dress shoes”, spritz themselves with Acqua di Gio and then think it’s cool to rent a white Hummer limo. Side note: Hummer limos are for Midwest proms and people who’s favorite food is Chicken Parmesan. The basic bro knows promoters, loves DJ’s and sweatily sips on a vodka redbull until he finds an equally basic counterpart to take back to his shared suite and then one day procreate with to make basic babies.

The Return of Thirsty Thursday

I would try and write a quippy intro for this but I am still at a loss of words, so instead I will use a plagiarized movie quote…

“It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself. It makes you wonder what else you are capable of…”

Do the right thing… @jackieschimmel

Welcome Bitch!

Hello kitty, my name is Jackie Schimmel and I am potentially your new best friend or worst nightmare. If you are here because you saw me on Watch What Happens Live, welcome and brace yourself. This is my sick little twisted world where I vent and offend people. Here you can find misguided life advice, strongly worded letters to Gwyneth Paltrow and even a few recipes because I am wholesome and approachable… right?

If Britney Spears has taught us ANYTHING in this world, it is that hair extensions are a slippery slope and they cant ALL be hits (#Perfume). Because of this Britney Jean life lesson, I have compiled some Bitch Bible posts to lure you into my bitchy stratosphere. That sentence sounds super rapey and I am okay with it. Enjoy and follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Grindr, Craigslist and or just on the street… Having a stalker is very chic.

How To Handle a Breakup Like a Bitch

Thirsty Thursday

Awkward Encounters: The New Girlfriend

Woes of a College Dropout

Conscious Uncoupling

My First Roommate

The Almost Boyfriend

And if you aren’t sick of me yet, please subscribe to my podcast series aptly named “The Bitch Bible” available on iTunes, Soundcloud, Stitcher or wherever you get your pod fix!

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:

Crazy, Not Sexy, Cool

If you don’t get the TLC reference happening know I am super disappointed. This weeks podcast is pretty ridiculous so you should listen to it while you are stuck in traffic, hating your life or just with your sugar daddy over a buttery glass of chardonnay…

10 Signs You’re Dating a Bunny Boiler

  1. Excess Flattery. Bitches love a compliment. Psychos will have their nose so far up your ass you are blinded by your own inflated ego. You are the smartest, most beautiful, funny, charming, domestic, business savvy bitch he has EVER met. And while that might all be true – the sentiment is less than sincere adoration.
  2. What you love, he loves. Amazingly, your new bunny boiling boo is so simpatico with you! You love reality television? So does he! You collect Spice Girl memorabilia? So does he! You want 17 kids and a three-legged dog with one testicle? SO DOES HE. This is the psycho’s way of making you believe you are perfect for each other.
  3. Welcome to the Pity Party. You will hear it all, his ex is crazy, his father abandoned him, he was bullied in high school. Waaah waaah, cry me a fucking river. A psycho will try to appeal to your emotions by victimizing himself and confiding in you. This is a ploy to garner empathy from you. If stories he shares with you run parallel to any plotline on Vanderpump Rules – RUN bitch, run.
  4. Medical Mayhem. Since the crazy bastard loves a good pity party, medical trauma is inevitable. A simple mole is probably skin cancer, a hangover is most definitely a brain tumor and he most likely has some hereditary ailment just WAITING to rear its undiagnosed head. Make sure those life-saving medications aren’t candy coated.
  5. Psycho in the streets, Fabio in the sheets. It is standard for a bunny boiler to go out of his way to keep his prey pleased. This is just another way of him trying to get you hooked or a reason to put up with his crazy.
  6. Unexpected outbursts. If you are shopping for new silverware at Bed, Bath and Beyond and your possibly unstable lover randomly announces, “he collects knifes” he is either a closet sushi chef or has accidentally exposed himself. Psychos can only save face for so long before they show cracks in the mask.
  7. The Silent Treatment. After they get you hooked and the idealization love bomb phase concludes, a psychopath will begin to devalue you. This is an attempt to pull the rug out from beneath you sparking insecurity. You then begin to doubt yourself and wonder why he is no longer worshipping you, making you instantly more hooked.
  8. Jealousy. This is their way of manipulating and catapulting you into a jealous frenzy. They may introduce you to an abnormally attractive co-worker, take a lunch with his ex or stock up on Victoria’s Secret catalogs. This is to make you both feel unworthy of his attention and lustful for the initial worship you once had.
  9. The Chuck. He has found a new unsuspecting victim or he needs to flee the country and your psychopath has already taken you on his sick and emotionally taxing rollercoaster. If he doesn’t end up turning you into chop suey, this is when you and your new Lexapro prescription are chucked to the wayside.
  10. Hovering. Just because he is done with you doesn’t mean his ego is ready to relinquish your admiration. Even if he has moved on, he will still make sure you are missing him. Expect an awkward email or random invitations to happy hour… hopefully in a well-lit and public venue.

Podcast Preview

About 3 of you have been desperately anticipating the premiere of The Bitch Bible podcast series. We have been working on this for months and finally are on the precipice of debuting for all muh bitches. This week, I drank and divulged with friend and man-bun champion Julian. In lieu of a Thirsty Thursday video, I decided to give you a sneak peek from our pod session. Enjoy!

These Hoes Ain’t Loyal

During my first year of college, I experienced the brunt of young female relationships. After being dumped, I secluded myself to the confines of my student apartment with my lesbian roommate and her cage-less chinchilla… and the occasional Food 4 Less outing. I wish I was joking about the latter. I spent more time at Food 4 Less on a daily basis than any of my classes combined. Bagel Bites for a buck fifty? You had me at bagel. Once I had wallowed in my self pity, I decided it was time to start socializing but only in the pursuit of an accidental run-in with my ex boyfriend where I looked BLISSFULLY HAPPY.

I began spending time with a girl I had gone to high school with. She was the type of girl who ALWAYS brought baked goods to class during the holidays and wore knee length dresses to homecoming. A real Pollyanna Purebred.

I found her to be stable and nurturing during my transition period. We would go on hikes, enjoy the pasta buffet at the dining hall, and watch Gossip Girl together. We would joke that I was Serena and she was Blair, and then consequently head to the local disappointment of a shopping center and find low budget outfits to embrace our fictitious lives. It was all so simple and sad.

(Side note: Serena and Blair were a global travesty to female relationships everywhere. They were terrible friends and should never be admired as a duo… they fucked each other’s boyfriends, spoke horribly of one another, and constantly were one-upping each other’s accessory game.)

Soon my Blair started losing her wholesome charm and spreading her legs to anyone with a handle of Popov vodka and an unlimited meal plan. I should be clear the devolution of our friendship had nothing to do with her promiscuity. I live for a slutty friend and envy their free spiritedness. She became awkwardly competitive with me and soon all of our outings became a mission for her to out-dress, out-drink, out-slut, and out-smart me. She always came out 2 for 4 which I thought was a healthy balance. It was only after a classy night at a local frat party where she proclaimed across the room that it must suck to be friends with her because that would make me the token ugly friend. Without sounding like an asshole, I must once again clarify this is not fucking true. I am sure all of my close friends are rolling their eyes and guffawing, given that I will tell the extended version of this story any chance I can (not that any of them really read my blog). Because I am a HUGE pussy, I never confronted her on her questionable character and thus had my very first frenemy. I would cancel plans, screen her calls, and slowly downgrade her from my Myspace Top 8 all while insisting we should “totally get lunch soon.”

Six months later she had defriended me on Facebook (burn), tried to punch and simultaneously bang my ex-boyfriend, rotated through about 63 new best friends and never returned my favorite sequined sweater which is the most tragic of all.

It’s one thing to dislike a person. It’s another thing to dislike a person and then continuing to sustain a façade of a friendship. If life is a game of poker, I find it best to know your players before you reveal your cards. I really am not sure what that means but it sounds deep as shit. Whether or not I reveal my hand, I am acutely aware of who loves me, who needs me, who’s kissing my ass or who’s secretly hoping I gain 47 pounds and end up working the take out window at The Olive Garden in a pair of orthopedic loafers with Type 2 diabetes.

Now that I have matured (slightly), I have learned that it would have been much better for Serena and Blair to have a civil parting of ways before their first semester at Constance. They could have designated separate hang out areas on the Met steps; Blair could have collected any headbands she may have left at the Vanderwoodsen Plaza penthouse and Serena could retrieve the keratin hair mask she kept at B’s.

Keeping friends is best, losing them is sad, but the worst is holding on to a friendship you never really had.

Rhyme so hard, mothafuckers wanna fine me.

A Plea of Desperation

To Whom it May Concern:

Hello, my name is Jackie Schimmel. I am a whipper snapper in my mid-twenties with an affinity for daytime sequins and a very sexual relationship with a good dry-aged gouda. I spend many nights home alone with my precious purebred pooch Leo sipping an ice chip clad dirty martini whilst in a plush robe. I often find myself snuggled by the fireplace watching some vintage Real Housewife episodes and throwing things at the television when Gretchen Rossi comes on the screen in one of her heinous outfits. It is in these blissful moments where I appreciate life and find solace in my alone time.

In the past few weeks, these moments I used to hold near and dear have become seriously fucked up. I hope I am not the only bitch that has recently suffered from the overflow of horror film trailers plaguing my television screen. Not only do I have to worry about fucking Ebola and running for cover whenever I hear someone out in public with a southern accent, I now have to deal with seeing the trailer for Annabelle every time I want to escape my daily disgruntles with reality television. It is wrong, terrifying and doesn’t sit well with me NOR with my Xanax prescription. I see this fucking trailer everywhere.  I love (some) children but I swear to fucking God if I had a kid that got possessed by a doll, I would not be headed to a church for an exorcism… I would be headed to the fire station #byefelicia.

So please, whoever you are, stop playing these wildly frightening trailers in the middle of Barefoot Cuntessa and Below Dick. It sends my serotonin levels on a roller coaster I am not equipped to handle, and also makes me want to personally dismember each and every one of my collector American Girl Dolls I had to hound my gentile Grandparents for.