The Art of Giving

I have been pretty open about not really believing in Karma, feeling it is mostly a scare tactic and have grappled with my own contribution to the universe after many a martini. Last week I had a situation that reaffirmed many of the existential life crises.

After spending the last few weeks traveling (#humblebrag) my Ashkenazi Jew fro had hit maximum brillo pad capacity. Being in desperate need of a deep hydration hair mask, I saddled up my pooch in his illegal service dog vest and walked to my local Rite Aid to load up on some vodka and argan oil treatments. As I approached the entrance I saw a family of 4 standing with a sign that read “Homeless with 2 babies to feed. Anything helps, God Bless”. This isn’t going to come out right but here I go. I avoid homeless people like the plague. Sticks are free, find a tin and make some fucking music. Provide a service for compensation. Begging seems so half assed. This is America.

This homeless mother of 2 infants caught me in a very vulnerable state. “Sorry I don’t have any cash.” As I walked into Rite Aid with my hypoallergenic pup, one of her small children locked eyes with me and was giving me Sara McLachlan beaten puppy eyes. All the sudden I started hearing the familiar “In the arms of the angel… Fly away from here.” Fuck.

I was basically already in the clear, strolling right past them into the fluorescent lighting when I had a very out of character heart pang and decided I was due for a good deed. I begrudgingly turned around, went up to the mother and told her I didn’t have cash but would be happy to buy her some groceries. In my head, I though condoms would be the smart purchase personally. As I led her into the store she immediately grabbed a shopping cart. I was hoping she grabbed it as a possible guesthouse and not to fill with goods on my dime.

I suggested we go to the baby supply aisle because I am a philanthropist and immediately this bitch starting throwing shit in the cart like it was the fucking Supermarket Sweep. I’m not talking generic brand diapers and wet wipes… this poverty stricken asshole was hawking Jessica Alba locally sourced organic burlap diapers and aloe vera infused ass wipes. Um no. I suggested we gravitate towards thing with a yellow sticker but she clearly wasn’t listening. Soon the cart was overflowing with 70lb containers of organic formula, paraben free bottles, even some fucking toys and coloring books.

If I were alone I would have put the kibosh on this immediately. But other shoppers were giving me such nods of approval, one person even offered me a warm shoulder grab and said he was honored to witness such selflessness. That was a first. I considered asking him if he wanted to go halfsies on the final bill but contained the urge.

My attempt at a good deed was now making me resentful. I was gritting my teeth and murmuring things under my breath like “Want to go to the fucking Ivy after this? Do your babies like crab cakes? Perhaps a fresh orchid for your tent?” I grabbed my $38 hair mask feeling less guilty than I had a mere 16 minutes ago and got in line with my new sponsored family. Solely because there were like 6 other people in line I decided this was my mitzvah for the decade and I needed to suck it up and be gracious. Although every time I saw the woman peruse through the bins in the line I gave her wrist a quick slap.

Finally, I was at the register. The cashier started to ring up everything and I looked around at the Rite Aid staff and fellow shoppers and gave them all a nonchalant shrug that said “Hey! I do what I can. Humanitarian by day, good time gal by night. It’s no biggie.” For 32 seconds I was Mother Teresa. I considered buying a pastel sweater set, organizing a can drive and eliminating the word “cunt” from my lexicon… giving back felt so right. “Alright miss, your total is $463.28.”

It was over as soon as it begun. No fucking way. This was a defining life moment. I took a second to gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and figure out how to navigate this situation. Should I hand my card over graciously or am I going to shatter my short-lived image of grace and humanity?

“Oh fuck no. Can you give us a quick second?” I asked the cashier. I pulled the homeless woman aside and explained to her that I too would be homeless if I had to pay for all of these goods. I know found myself bartering with her item by item. “Do you really need this economy sized formula? Can you still produce milk from the tit? I hear it’s better for brain development and then maybe one of your sons can be a brain surgeon and get you a condo in the valley. Also rattles are a luxury item. Void please.”

After we had the store manager void 7 items, I then made the executive decision we needed to exchange our remaining goods for the generic brand which resulted in 5 very embarrassing PA announcements “Manager to register 3, we need to exchange the Honest Company diaper rash cream for the Rite Aid brand equivalent.” This homeless woman was NOT happy about her Supermarket Sweep going generic and had the nerve to tell me that if I didn’t need my $40 hair mask, her children could have new toys.

After 28 minutes of checkout drama, I was able to get my charity bill down to $120 and left Rite Aid with my head held low and truly bitter towards the whole experience. The woman hugged me, blessed me and I was on my merry way. I decided to grab a reflective iced tea at Starbucks and call my mom to brag about what a giver she had raised.

When I walked outside I saw my new rescue family standing on the street with the cart full of merchandise and imagined they were headed to the freeway underpass and got the same familiar heart pang that got me into this whole mess. A real full circle moment.

Until a brand new Honda mini van pulled up curbside, trunk popped (automatic) and her husband started loading all the shit I just bought into their car. My jaw dropped and rage filled my body. The doors slid open (luxury) and this “homeless” hooker started to buckle her kids in their seemingly non pre-owned car seats. I had to get closer.

As I approached the van I noticed Despicable Me playing in the fucking headrest TVs. Yes I said it, HEADREST TVS. What the fuck? They sped away presumably to their Bel Air estate before I could confront her and I sat their feeling helpless and taken advantage of. For my own state of well being I have convinced myself they LIVE in that car hence the leather interiors and built in entertainment system. God, I hope they live in that car… Is that awful? Nope.

Anne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor from giving.” No offense to Anne, but she didn’t get out much. The moral of this long winded and sure to be polarizing story is to never let someone shame your hair product selections, a small act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention and always carry cash.


Here Comes the Bitch…


Hi everyone. Sorry it has been a while since my last post. I have been volunteering my services to the Hilary Clinton presidential campaign and learning Mandarin. But actually, I have been doing nothing and couldn’t be happier. Recently, after only four death threats and one failed attempt to join Raya, my boyfriend proposed. I’m getting fucking married and it has catapulted me into a Bridezilla/Basic Bitch/ Existential life crisis.

While this is arguably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me except for the time I bought something at Bloomingdales and talked my way into exchanging it at Neiman Marcus (and people think I have no talent). Since I have started planning I realized I am haunted by basic brides that have resurrected before me. Is it possible to plan a wedding and NOT be a self involved, fluffy haired, asshole? I fucking hope so. People get married and think they become the epicenter of the universe. The harsh truth is, no one gives a real fuck about your impending nuptials except you and like 8 other people. So while you hold people hostage like the fucking Taliban and ask whether they prefer ivory or eggshell, remember to stay self-aware, step away from pinterest and embrace these truths.

Just because you have solidified a life partner, does not mean you are the new authority on eternal happiness. Getting a Zale’s cushion cut diamond wrangled on your phalange doesn’t give you the right to judge your free spirited slutty friends. We get it. You have found the love of your life. Maybe your friend’s love of their life is a bag of Chex Mix and her Valtrex prescription.

Not to be a Debbie Downer but statistically almost 60% are destined for a second marriage or maybe a Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell situation. So while your ironing your white button down polo shirts for your extremely basic engagement shoot, remember that before you express pity for your single friends that you have to clean underwear that is not yours for the rest of your life. Live and let live.

Getting hitched does not mean you have to start dressing like a midwestern substitute teacher who collects potpourri and ceramic figurines. I know people that could have been the spokesperson for Vegas attire. Bandage dresses (kill me), platform pumps and a clip in synthetic weave that could start a wildfire. Magically upon matrimony, they start dressing so “Churchy” and complaining about a heel height of a fucking tic-tac. Really bitch? You lived in hooker heels (#madeinchina) for a decade – don’t try.

If anything, you need to get sluttier after “settling down”. Just because you are on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t check out the fucking menu. Newsflash… guys have penises. Penises are fueled by testosterone. Testosterone makes men into primal animals. Animals that subconsciously WANT and NEED men other than themselves to want to bang their future wife because then they feel like they have a prized possession. I am not saying women are possessions just calm the fuck down, it’s a METAPHOR. The sooner bitches understand this biology, the sooner we will truly run the world.

Despite my grievances, I am SUPER excited to navigate the bitchy bridal rapids with a bedazzled life jacket, Dramamine (or Xanax) and an unsigned prenupt as my sail.

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.

Kim Richards Update

Oy vey. I was hoping my next Kim Richards update was announcing that she had a line of sad polyester tunics and white capris for sale on QVC but no, things have only gotten worse for the turtle loving, fuchsia lipstick loving Kim. Back in April she was arrested for trespassing, resisting arrest and battery of a police officer. If the antics had stopped there she would have one hell of a Lifetime biopic to pitch.

Before this case was settled, Kim checked into a rehab to get help. Apparently her road to recovery was as short as Brand Glanville’s exposed tampon string because just a couple days ago Kim was arrested for shoplifting $600 worth of shit from Target. I mean if your going to pull a shoplifting stunt, at least be chic about it and go to a high-end department store a la Winona Ryder? Fucking Target? Really? What the fuck did she steal? An economy pack of Lysol wipes? A value pack of Mossimo full coverage briefs? It’s all so depressing.

I don’t want to seem insensitive to people who are mentally ill but I simply must state the obvious. Kim Richards is the new Amanda Bynes. Or perhaps Lindsay Lohan? Sources are now saying her family is considering putting her in a 5150 hold, which is really sad, but also ANOTHER amazing platform for a latter book deal. Being the compassionate Samaritan that I am, I have gone ahead and compiled a few title ideas for Richards’s exclusive use.

Voom Voom Sha-Clink

Turtles > Alcohol

Fifty Shades of Orange

Where’s Monty? (A picture book inspired by Where’s Waldo)

Kim and The Giant Cart 


I feel really bad for Kim’s family and hope she gets her shit together quickly. Kim, I have always loved you and your special occasion high ponytails and hope to see you healthy and nursing a squirrel very soon.

Millenial Matchmaker

Unless you have been living in a cave or totally suck, hopefully you are listening to The Bitch Bible podcast series. It’s perfect for carpooling with the kids, family dinners and everyday guidance… okay maybe not but it’s still pretty wonderful. Please be warned it is NOT for the easily offended.

Click PODCAST tab on the menu above to listen and laugh your ass off. It may not be nice but it sure as fuck isn’t boring.

On this weeks podcast I make a public call to action to play matchmaker for my sister Ashley, my gusband Max and my producer Yimu. If you are a strapping young lad who is looking for love please submit photo and a brief bio to but ONLY if you meet the qualifications listed below….

  1. Ages 18-80
  2. Must be employed
  3. Must own a car (not a fucking bike)
  4. Must be mostly STD free
  5. Must not own any cats
  6. Must not have any children
  7. Must be okay with recreational drug use
  8. Property owners encouraged
  9. Trust funds encouraged
  10. Trust funds and terminal illnesses even MORE encouraged.

If this sounds like you please send portfolios our way, for more info on our bachelorettes follow us on Instagram: @bitchbible and twitter @the_bitch_bible

Why Every Bitch Needs a Gusband

In honor of tomorrow’s podcast episode (which you can listen to HERE: ) where I introduce and lend you the wisdom of my Gusband, I thought I would emphasize the many perks of having a gay life partner. You may think your morals, lifestyle and personal triumphs define you as a bitch… perhaps… but nothing I repeat NOTHING defines your true self like the selection of your Gubby.

1. To be your faux boyfriend in a pinch. Who cares if he is drinking a daiquiri and wearing a mesh tank top? No one has to know he likes it in the schvincter. Accidental run-ins with an ex become a breeze when you have a gay best friend handy to pose as your new loving and fashion forward lover.

2. A faithful gubby offers unfiltered truth. They tell you when you are dressed like a cheap hooker, when you may need a rhinoplasty consultation or when you may need to go on an ice chip/splenda diet. Yes, the truth hurts, but so does lap band surgery. In Gubs we trust.

3. Free image consulting. In sketchy female friendships and even in hetero relationships there are a myriad of motives when giving opinions on your aesthetics. A boyfriend may worry you will garner too much male attention and a female friend may have the same concern. It is in a gay man’s best interest to have the hottest “fag hag” on his arm.

4. BRUNCH. No explanation necessary.

5. Low drama. I tend to live by the guiding light of Mary J. Blige’s “No More Drama.” I fucking love her and that gold tooth. Naturally this (and this whole list) is a huge generalization and I have met many a twink who sashays through life feeding on drama and vodka sodas. However, because of their direct nature, gay men tend to be less dramatic.

6. Male insight. In most situations, a heart to heart with a straight man is propelled by one thing: sex. Since this is off the table with your Gub, you have access to the inner workings of the male mind without having to make an emergency Planned Parenthood appointment.

7. Unless he is a bi-bi birdie and swings both ways, chances are you aren’t competing for the same man candy. Whether anyone wants to admit it, bitches are competitive. It’s called Darwinism. Having a life partner that can’t be emasculated by your successes is what makes a hoe & her mo’s union so stable.



Bitches, my highly unanticipated podcast series is finally here. I try not to appear TOO thirsty (although I am parched as fuck) so consider this the ONLY favor I ask of you. Download (it’s FREE, link below) SUBSCRIBE (instant gratification) review (5 stars) and share with your bitches. Below is some feedback I received from family, friends and producers from first pod.



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.

I Give a Fuck

This may the most Emo Emily post I have ever written and will ever post. Fueled mostly by menstruation, I have felt completely stuck like an Asian at a yellow light for past week. I always feel this way around the New Year and have no fucking clue why. I usually blame being a Jew and feeling conflicted internally that I have to celebrate two New Years and than coincidently have to pick which one is the real thing.

I have a quarter life crisis at least 5 times a year. I am insanely hard on myself and riddled with excess adrenaline. I care way too much what people think of me. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Why do we as a society celebrate not giving a fuck? I give huge fucks. Mazel Tov, you don’t care what people think, how “Los Feliz” of you. My livelihood is based on a stranger’s approval so it is to my best benefit to care. Right? RIGHT.

Last week while staying at my parent’s house during the holidays I ran into an old middle school “friend.” I do not do these situations well. I get really nervous and highly over share. I let her know I was constipated – why this is my go-to topic of convo I will NEVER know.  We were both in the tampon aisle; I hadn’t started menstruating yet but was trying to channel The Secret for my last moments of 2014. Like I say every month “better to GET your period, than not.” I then awkwardly mentioned how serendipitous it was to reunite in the feminine product aisle and offered her a high five for “not being pregnant.” I then continued to over share and told her I have yet to actually GET my period but was anticipating a real menstrual monsoon based on recent cravings. She indulged me in my ovulation small talk and made a joke “Maybe you’re just pregnant?” I laughed and shot back, “Luckily, I have a sketchy friend who swears a few lines of cocaine, a scorching hot bath, and a day of extreme horseback riding will solve that issue.” This did not go over well.

Once again, in my pursuit of being charming, I had taken it too far. Sensing her disdain for my failed joke (although not REALLY a joke – my friend swears it works) I gave an awkward hug and evacuated the aisle quickly. Fuck. Then the tornado in my head started brewing. Uh-oh, what if she had a baby? What if she is in a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What is a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What if she thinks I am a drug addict? I have never even done cocaine… Although it would be a great way to aide in a deviated septum so I could get a free nose job. Why do I even care?

I started awkwardly pacing through different aisles debating whether I should stage another run-in and try to redeem myself. I decided I had done enough damage and should spare myself the opportunity to make anymore inappropriate jokes. I could already check abortion and substance abuse off my list. What would be next? Holocaust jokes? It was time to leave.

Later that day I started thinking about perception. Sometimes who we really are and who people think we are can be a scary paradox. Why the fuck did I care SO much about what a glorified stranger thought about me? As I tried to talk myself off the metaphorical cliff of worrying about making the front page of our local newspaper “Jackie Schimmel Hates Unborn Children AND Does Cocaine!” I sat down and found unlikely solace from Valerie Cherish. For those of you, who don’t watch “The Comeback” or don’t find Valerie Cherish to be the MOST loveable and endearing character on television I need you out of my life. Val taught me that while a public opinion is nice– the most important is the opinion you have of yourself. If your hair is ratchet, you can buy a weave. If you’re not that cerebral, you can hire a tutor. But you can’t buy a good reputation.


Amy, I am really sorry if I offended you. I have yet to pick up any form of substance abuse and generally like 70% of small children. I still think it was really funny and hope you will forgive me… #igaf

New Year, Same Bitch

I was trying to think of something quippy but I am having major digestive issues and can’t be bothered with mental stimulation. I kind of fucking hate New Years. Firstly, bodycon dresses with mesh inserts hurt my feelings and the pressure associated with the holiday gives me anxiety. My best New Years was spent in a onesie with a vintage Bravo marathon and sexual spooning with my dog. We are forced to reflect and think about things we are supposed to change for a better “new year” and it all reads very basic.

Girls in Uggs and Michael Kors watches EVERYWHERE start posting cryptic Facebook statuses and video collages of their 2014 highlights. Gag me. To be completely honest, my year has been the best of my life romantically, career-wise and digestively. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it right? Sure I could start caring about my physical health, drinking more water and be a more compassionate being but that all feels a bit pushy. I believe we all have minor room for improvement and in the spirit of all things basic (and nothing else to write about) I have compiled a bitch-approved list of New Years resolutions.

Be kind to kind people. I am not that delusional, I know I can be a huge bitch. I like to think I am just overly direct but sometimes I have a razor tongue and heightened adrenaline levels that turn me into fucking Medusa. I often get stereotyped as some type of Regina George life ruiner and it’s just not true… count the homecoming princess tiaras. I am the most verbally abusive to people I really love. I am currently working on this with my therapist. How you treat people who can do NOTHING for you says more than how you treat anybody else.

Good Credit is kind of important. My father has permanently ingrained that “if you don’t have good credit, you have nothing” this statement is incredibly dramatic and fueled by serious Judaism. My credit hasn’t been stellar but my shoe game has always been incredible. I was on a Neimans Most Wanted list for a solid 4 months and it was a rough go. This is something I have been tirelessly trying to improve despite the fact that I am still toting a 3-year-old Time Warner Cable box a la Kristen Doute… I will do just about anything to avoid going to Camarillo (that is where the drop-off location is… Google it).

Talk shit, get hit. If there is one pearl of wisdom I have learned from watching The Real Housewives is that people will almost ALWAYS hear what you say behind their back. For some fucked reason, people use gossip as a bonding tool. I prefer discussing my digestive system and extensively analyzing Vanderpump Rules over dirty martinis but whatever. Expect anything you say about someone to be pulled out of a manila folder at a reunion special and read to the subjects face and you will be a much more careful bitch.

Remember, most of the shitty things that happened in 2014 are your own fault. Deaths and natural disasters aside (too real?) most of the things we complain about in retrospect right before New Years are our own fucking fault. Still harboring tumultuous vibes with an ex? Your fault. Unhappy with your career? Your fault. Working a grade a muffin top? Your fault. As soon as a bitch realizes that she is the sole CEO of their own fucking life, you can rid yourself of the less than fabulous factors and strut forward into 2015 (hopefully in shoes that you didn’t have to bounce a check for).



First, I must address the anorexic elephant in the room. I am not talking about the homage to my favorite Nickelodeon show in the title of this post (bonus bitch points if you understand this reference… Emma Roberts in her prime).

For everyone that watched the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show last night (shamefully I did, but only to see if they aired Ariana Grande getting bitch slapped by an angel wing), Karlie Kloss’ strange ballet dream sequence was the most awkward thing I’d ever experienced, out-awking when my second cousin told me I had nice boobs. Bitch wasn’t even in pointe shoes… It was painful and awesome all at the same time. She kept referencing her “background in ballet” but didn’t showcase any actual ballet skills. To clarify, watching Center Stage and not eating doesn’t make you a prima ballerina. She is still very gorgeous so I will forgive her… also if I’m ever famous, I’d like to be in her clique. I’d fit right in as the bitchy, funny friend who likes carbs. She rolls with T Swizzle so I would get them both into liquid calories and make jokes about hating all of Taylor’s cats. At first Tay would take it personally, but then she would realize I have a hidden heart of gold and thank me in her next album for teaching her how to lighten up and not take life so seriously. We would also work with her awkward “dance moves” which is more or less just her whipping her noodly limbs around dramatically. Sounds refreshing right? Watch me.

I am in this really weird headspace lately where I totally don’t give a shit about anything except my dog, my boyfriend, work and hand sanitizer. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or just a quarter life crisis but I’ve been feeling especially detached from the real world. When I decide to strap on my hottest new Tom wedges, put on my signature Tiffany charm bracelet and fave Bebe tracksuit (I am fucking joking) I find myself incredibly turned off by the strangers I meet.

I really don’t like people who let their stuff validate them. I realize I may sound like a huge hypocrite considering I have nearly sold an ovary for a fresh pair of Louboutins, but I work hard and can buy whatever the fuck I want. Working hard and treating yourself is different then letting these stupid “things” validate you. Maybe it’s just an LA thing (although I hate to sound like an anti-Angeleno because LA is my home and I love it here) I am just so over pretentious people. Air kissing, entitled, name dropping bullshit. I would rather sit in an Outback Steakhouse with a gaggle of sequined visor wearing hillbillies then listen to one more hoe-bag talk about the travesty of Isabel Marant for H&M or fuckin’ SoulCycle. I don’t want to be fabulous or fancy. I want to be funny and smart. Is that so strangely simple to say?

As I’ve grown and met new people, I’ve realized I naturally gravitate towards people who are extremely talented, extremely humble and extremely self-deprecating. I no longer care if your dad can get us N’Sync tickets or if your slutty mom allows boys to sleepover. Priorities have shifted, acquaintances drifted and sugar sifted. I don’t know what that last rhyme means but let it marinade… I am positive it could read super deep.

We live in a world where people, places and things play as attributes to who we are. I am so guilty of this. I will geotag myself anywhere that has 4 stars and above on Yelp. I’m not proud. I’m going to Hakkasan tonight and you best believe I will Instagram the shit out of it… Fingers crossed I make it to the Explore page.

Designer shoes don’t make your steps more important, Balenciaga bags don’t make your baggage lighter and a Mercedes doesn’t make your road any smoother… Although I drive a Mercedes and that shit really glides. If your identifiers are things a bitch should reprioritize and reroute. If that doesn’t work… Go lose yourself through the art of dance like Karlie Kloss.

Questionable Tidbits of “Wisdom”

This week I was a guest speaker at my high school. I was supposed to give life advice, talk about building a creative brand and a bunch of other shit I am in no way qualified to be talking about. The good news is that the students were all so cute (I didn’t get booed) and I didn’t say fuck ONCE. That is what we call a victory people #lowstandards. I am pretty sure I said all the wrong things: I mean, I am a college dropout who prides myself on rather unimpressive statistics and useless knowledge. I started thinking about the very few things I have learned as a bitch out in the real world and how it has shaped me as a boss ass BITCH. I am so fucking reflective it kills me. Here are some morsels of shitty “wisdom” I have pulled out of my ass oh so delicately.

  1. I kinda hate that saying “fake it till you make it” because it implies a lack of talent but to a certain degree there is no harm in pretending you know what you’re doing. In fact, I make a conscious effort to always act like I know what I am talking about which I really only do 20% of the time. Quantum physics? Nailed it. Japanese Agriculture? Practically invented it. Stock trading? Since birth.
    It’s only deceptive if you have zero intention to actually LEARN what you are pretending to know. I have become almost professional at bluffing. When I first decided to start a blog I had to Google what a domain was. I also used to boast on my resume I spoke Spanish AND French, but in reality I can barely speak proper English (it’s called spell check and a fab copy editor … bless you Yimu). This is 2014. There is an app for almost everything… think about it.
  2. Only listen to yourself or those who know more than you. I pride myself on not being an authority on ANYTHING. Sure, I am a good cook but Ina Garten is better. I think I am a phenomenal dancer but I’d never get cast as Nomi in my all time favorite movie Showgirls. Personal intuition is a strong guiding force. I was told I couldn’t write, would probably marry some rich guy and never be taken seriously due to my affinity for daytime sequins and my ample bosom. Thank God I am a terrible listener. I always say only listen to your own best judgment or people who REALLY know what they are talking about (preferably with accolades and the savings account to prove it.) Some power hungry corporate asshole with a Ford Fusion and a general distaste for life doesn’t get to tell you what your limitations are in life (I am talking to you Carlos… sorry I won;t make it to your birthday party. You are an arrogant asshole).
  3. Don’t be a slob. Fashion is the best way to say who you are without using words. Luckily, my words are my business but there is a certain appeal to aesthetics that draws people in. You don’t want to buy a house that looks like crap on the outside. Some would say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and although that is heart warming ideal – life isn’t a PBS Special. Looks matter. I have worked in offices where whipping out your tits would get you a promotion and in contrast an office where shapeless Hillary Clinton inspired skirt suits were admired like a crocodile Birkin. Brush your fucking hair, smell good and put a little effort in. You’ll thank me.
  4. Check your ego at the door. Nothing pisses me off more than people who take themselves too seriously. If you ever find yourself quoting lines from your resume you need to get your shit together. Some of the smartest people I know graduated from an Ivy League school called LIFE. Education, social class and bullshit credentials shouldn’t define you.
  5. Cry on the inside like a winner. I hope this doesn’t make me seem like a total chick with a dick but save your emotional fragility for a private showing of Steel Magnolias in your living room. Breaking down at work blurs lines and bitches need to separate business from boo-hoo fests. If you need to cry find a bathroom stall and don’t make a scene. It’s just annoying and dramatic.
  6. Don’t be annoying. Persistence is great. Ass kissing is transparent. Don’t be the annoying intern ostracized from the rest. The mentality of “not being here to make friends” is all too overplayed and fucking stupid. I am not saying you need to be braiding a co-worker’s hair and sharing froyo but if everyone has a problem with you… YOU’RE the asshole. No one wants to hire someone that doesn’t get along well with others. Being likable may be the most underrated characteristic of all time. Nobody wants to help, hire, or happy hour with a fuck-head.

So smile, bite your tongue, bust your ass, feign interest in your cubicle mates dying cat and when all else fails remember that salvation is just a dirty martini away. Feel enlightened? Probably not. You’re welcome.

The Selfie Project

I like to consider myself both a pioneer woman and a philanthropist. I will attend almost any charity event if there is an open bar and/or a waitstaff distributing appetizers. Eight out of ten times I will even throw a Benjamin into the optional donation box (and by Benjamin I mean George…Maybe Abraham). But hey, ballin’ ain’t easy.

My preferred contribution to society is my gift of written word, consistent updates re: my digestive system and modeling daytime sequins. My latest philanthropic work is The Selfie Project. In the past year, selfies have taken over my heart, my newsfeed and my serotonin levels. No street corner, social gathering or public bathroom is safe. Nothing says low point like waiting patiently to wash your hands in an El Pollo Loco bathroom while the Chiquita in front of you is waiting for her cheek piercing to twinkle in the fluorescent lighting for the perfect post tacos al carbon selfie. Because I am a narcissist, I was convinced she was trying to snap a picture of me but oh no … this was a definite solo shoot. Who doesn’t feel sexy after low budget fast food made by someone featured on Megan’s Law? #nofilter #nomz

There are 2 types of selfies.

The first is obvious; a photo you take of yourself. Fucking duh.

The second type of selfie is a posed photo you have your fat friend take so it seems “candid.” I recently left the safety of my apartment and decided to venture out for a night on the town. It was that night where I was exposed to the “semi-selfie.”

Lipgloss is applied, hair is fluffed and the setting assigned. Then, the culprit finds a willing soul to assume the role of Mario Testino and capture your free spirited (yet perfectly posed) arms up dancing that you have been practicing for in the mirror for months #justdance. Here is an example of the semi-selfie for those who are a few chromosomes short (a video of people posing for semi-selfies while unknowingly being filmed #indie) …


My blatant humanitarianism has manifested into The Selfie Project “Capturing others, capturing themselves.” This movement was birthed after my friend Charlotte and I discussed the emotional turmoil this has caused within us and so many others. When will this selfie brigade stop? Enough is enough.

I blame Kim Kardashian… for pretty much everything in life. She obviously brought Ebola over to the states. Or maybe it was Kylie? I don’t know I can’t deal with semantics. In fact, I don’t even know what the word semantics means and I can live with that.

So whether you extend that arm and capture your own duck face or recruit a lone ranger at the bar to snap a pic of your head tilt, popped clavicle while you pretend to drink straight from the bottle cause you’re so WiLd aNd FrEe with your besties– just know that I am watching and judging you. And photographing you. Please use #theselfieproject to spread awareness and bring light to this embarrassing and violating habit sweeping the nation.

#blurredlines #whiskey #saturdaze #moonchild #tinydancer #glam #redlips #welivefortheweekend #livefreedieyoung #redbottoms #vivaluxe #vino #LAnights #cantstopwontstop #STOPIT.