#KimExposedTaylor

There are pop culture milestones that change history forever. Last night the world received a metaphorical edible arrangement in the form of Kim Kardashian vs Taylor Swift. As a squad reject, I have very personal feelings about Taylor Swift. I would rather hang out with ISIS than attend one of her holiday weekend barbeques. I am not thin or rich enough and I doubt she would be cool with my JonBenet Ramsey jokes.

As we all know, Taylor Swift is a nice girl. I have always struggled with the term “nice”. Nice is a behavior not a personality attribute. Just remember there are people who say Osama Bin Laden was NICE. I value authenticity over bullshit pleasantries which is why this story vindicates me so.

As we all know Nina Banks from Father of The Bride 2/ Jenny Humphrey aka Taylor Swift has been very vocal and self-righteous over Kanye West’s “Famous”. She gave a enthrallingly basic/victimized/ babysitters club Grammy speech jabbing at Kanye and insisting she was blindsided by the song. Innocent little cat lady. All the while Kanye West has INSISTED Taylor knew about the song. Pablo let the incident die while he was off taking a pair of scissors to a Fruit of The Loom sweatpants for Yeezy Season 5 until last night when Kim “Harriet the Spy” Kardashian Humphries West exposed T Swift with the light of a trillion Lumee cases.

Kim didn’t give us a cryptic tweet, suggestive caption or a magazine pull quote, she gave us kold hard evidence. That snapchat bomb was epic as fuck. I have never been a Kardashian fan, I find them incredibly uninteresting and tired. Except for Rob, what a strapping young sock mogul. I am kidding, he is the WORST. I must admit, Kim is my favorite.

I like to imagine Taylor Swift was home baking gluten-free banana bread, doodling in her Burn Book, watching yet another Friends rerun and manicly staring at herself in the mirror brushing her smug bob. Then her phone rings (Blank Space is her ringtone) and all hell breaks loose. She starts assaulting her housekeeper, takes a knife to her mattress, screams bloody murder and grits her teeth at her 38 cats while plotting her retaliation. She calls Karlie Kloss to see if with all of her “coding knowledge”she could take down Kim’s snapchat. Ironically, Karlie doesn’t ACTUALLY know how to code (side note: if you aren’t privy to Koding with Karlie please look into it, living for models pretending to be nerds and burger enthusiasts – stfu).

So instead, further perpetuating the victim mentality, Taylor responds by saying she didn’t know he was going to refer to her as “that bitch” and feels violated by being recorded without her knowing. Really? Remember when you professed to have no idea about Kanye’s song and there is a fucking VIDEO of you encouraging creative liberty? Bitch please.

The reason people dislike Taylor is because she seems void of authenticity. It started with the faux suprise everytime she won an award “what? me? no way! I can’t believe it. I am such an underdog!”. Then she took a big preaching shit all over Amy Poehler and Tina Fey after they made a miniscule joke about Taylors dating life. Instead of shaking that shit off (HELLO its an award show, if you get to do what you love and make millions of dollars doing so you can take a joke) Taylor shifted the narrative to feminism and voiced her concern for “pitting women against eachother…” shut the fuck up.

We can’t forget about Nicki Minaj pointing out that all MTV VMA nominations were in favor of slim women and Tay Tay made it ALL about her only to reconcile for an opening performance together. Ugh. Then most recently, Taylor willingly preferred and agreed to have a psuedonym as a writer on “This is What You Came For” and then oh so skillfully manipulated the narrative that she wasn’t getting proper credit. HUH? I just can’t.

Word on the street is that Taylor has a potential lawsuit against Kimye for releasing he phone call/ recording her without her permission. Unfortunately I know the extremities of these privacy infringements because I was almost sued by an emaciated busboy/ DJ (#PumpRules) but luckily he is too poor to prosecute. Taylor, bitch to bitch, if you choose to press charges not only will you have the rhythm of Gumby with Parkinson’s, you will also be a total narc. Darling, you are kinda a nightmare dressed like a day dream.

 

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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.

Faux Feminism

I am over faux feminism even more than gluten free baked goods. Maybe I am ignorant, delusional or as Kylie Jenner called me “the downfall to our gender”. I consider myself a very strong, successful-ish, proud woman. Granted, I capitalize on glorifying the term bitch and wear the label loud and proud. I try not to get political or speak on social issues mostly because I am a college dropout and don’t spend enough time researching my stance. One thing I cannot seem to hide from is the oh so trendy cause of the moment; Faux Feminism. Before you start throwing tampons at me, let me be clear, I am an authentic feminist. I owned 15 collectors edition Spice Girl dolls for fucks sake. What I can’t get down with, is the bullshit faux-femme crusade raping my content state of womanhood.

Before we call anyone a true feminist we should question whether they are victimizing or glorifying us as the fabulous bitches we are. If we want to truly be equals constantly separating ourselves seems pretty fucking stupid. When we make things about gender, race, age or social status we detract from the solutions and actually create more of a divide.

As far as in concerned women are vessels for human life, aren’t expected to pay for their own drinks AND have way stronger chances of surviving any cruise ship that hits an iceberg #neverletgoJack. Women are fucking superheroes. Civilization literally depends on us. Besides being able to pee in public with more finesse, I don’t see why being a man is necessarily easier than being a women.

I am not an idiot, I know the statistics (kinda) but also know that bashing men is not productive. Do all feminists hate the male population, get offended by basic chivalry and want the term semester to be called the ovester? No. Do those particular feminists deviate from the basic principles of equality? Fuck yes.

I feel like the major problem here is quite a few “feminists” are actually detrimental to basic Girl Power #bitchyspice. Women posting pictures of themselves scantily clad all for feminism? Bitch please. You just had a tape worm and are feeling yourself. It’s not a crime, own it. Don’t make you taking photos of your 4 finger thigh gap a social issue. Especially if you are going to later complain about being “objectified”. You have a hott body and you want to show it off before you hit 30 and shit starts to sag, trust me I get it.

Having a man want to wine and dine you also doesn’t label you as an inferior. Um hello? Being treated like a lady should empower us and show respect. I don’t want to pay for my fucking filet on a first date so sue me. If anything being personally chauffered, fed and fawned over gives us a very obvious advantage. Hot tip: you don’t have to put out just because he let you order your own entree. For the record, assholes come in all shapes and genders. Men can be mistreated, underpaid and sexually harassed also. So if we are using men as a benchmark how does that really guarantee us equality? Ever heard of a Masculinist March? Samesies.

It’s these and so many more contradicting factors that make the trendy ideals of “feminism” so counter productive. Obviously there are far more important issues with unfair wages and other disadvantages. All I am saying is let’s focus on solutions and positive momentum instead of furthering a divide.

I fucking love being a woman. I have great boobs, can wear sequins without judgement and haven’t opened a door since 2002.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, it took years for Britney’s hair to grow back and I am still waiting for Spice Girl the Musical to come to the states. The beauty of a glass ceiling is that if properly Windex-ed you can see right through it #girlpower.

Obitchuary

This is a new weekly post where things that are irritating me come to die. They may be resurrected a la Jesus Christ at a latter time, but in this very instance I wholeheartedly stand by my personal decision to pull the metaphorical plug if you will.

Rosé I fucking love rosé. Not some gross shit from a bag, box or bottle of 2 Buck Chuck #sulfites. I am talking REAL rosé. Without emulating Gwyneth Paltrow, real rosé is from Provence and doesn’t leave you with red rashy rosacea face like other cheap shit. As much as it pains me to say, rosé season is over. The good news is that once rosé season is over, so is bikini season so it’s time to let yourself go again. Insulate for the winter, eat a pizza, have a beer.

The Bing Bang Theory Okay. Does anyone ACTUALLY think this shit is funny? Jimmy Nuetron called and wants his graphic designer back. Watching actors in mock turtlenecks playing “nerds” while being paid a million dollars an episode seems exploitive to my intelligence. LAUGH TRACKS MAKE ME SO UNCOMFORTABLE. I can’t, I haven’t, I won’t. Ever. (But I really love Kaley Cuoco.. be friends with me?)

Yeezy x Adidas  If Jodie Sawyer from Center Stage gained 100 lbs and ended up being severely depressed and admitted to a mental institution, then whilst in solitary confinement found a stray pencil and started sketching fat binding androgynous dancewear as a solemn creative outlet – you would have Kanye’s fall collection. It’s sad, it’s manic, it’s fat binding and it’s a camel toe nightmare. These are not clothes, these are mesh full body condoms.

Paris Shit Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I love the rude people, I love the food, I love almost everything about it… except the memorabilia. If you walk into a bitches house and she has 3 or more home décor items with a Parisian theme… grab your shit and head for the hills. When I see someone with a black and white picture of an Eiffel Tower I instantly think #daddydrama and/or Lexapro. I also hate people who caption their Instagram posts with things like “j’adore” or “je’taime”… because it’s “je’stupid”. Makes me want to punch myself in the trachea and drown myself in the Seine after engorging myself with a wheel of local brie.

Faux Senior-Citizen Hair Maybe I am just jealous that my mane doesn’t have the flexibility to change colors without deep reconstructive treatments. My hair is the blend of a pipe cleaner and a dead weed. There is not enough frizz serum and moisture masks in the world to allow me to casually die my hair grey. I will admit, I had some pink extensions put in after a run-in with Lisa Vanderpump, but shortly realized I was not pulling that shit off. So essentially I drank the kool-aid and then dipped my head in it. Why the fuck would anyone want to voluntarily look geriatric? Jamie Lee Curtis called and wants her look back.

Rest in peace.

The Sangria Stakeout

I live my life by the following guiding principles:

  1. Slow and steady only wins a Special Olympics race.
  2. Never trust anyone who wears heels and white sunglasses poolside.
  3. It’s not creepy if it’s legal.

I have discussed in major detail my recreational stalking habits. Some girls like yoga, some girls like hacking emails. Apples to apples. I have heard many a cynic tell me that bitches who patrol others personal information are insecure. Untrue, I am inherently a curious human being and take on life with an investigative approach. I wonder about tons of things. Like why is the sky blue? What hairspray did Jon Benet Ramsey use? What is my neighbor’s social security number?

Many assume that my stalking tendencies only target a prospective romantic partner. Wrong again. I stalk anything, anyone ,and anywhere with free fucking wifi. One of my fave traditions is the tried and true “Sangria Stakeout.” The “Sangria Stakeout” is a super fun and celebratory way to confirm your boo’s whereabouts.

For instance, if a guy you are dating claims to be working late, have strep throat or be volunteering for Habitat for Humanity on a Saturday night – a bitch has the right to follow up. A casual drive by is so 2009 and quite frankly, an amateur move. After discussing this on my podcast, I felt I owed my bitches a more detailed explanation of how to execute such a manic milestone of your own.

First things first, you will need a borrowed car with tinted windows (preferably sans license plate) or a classic rape van (preferably with curtained windows and electrical hook ups). Once you have secured a stakeout vessel, you need the right company. Leave your shit stirring buzzkill friend at home. Gays really thrive in this type of social setting. Also invite anybody that knows how to put together a chic charcuterie platter. Atmosphere is crucial during a Sangria Stakeout so make a themed playlist to set the mood.

Here are some suggestions:

  1. “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
  2. “Creep” by TLC
  3. “I Drove All Night” by Celine Dion

In the common chance you find your love interest NOT at home with a yeast infection but instead, pregaming a night on the town with some hussy in a polyblend Bebe dress… you are going to need a cocktail. Sangria is the perfect beverage because it’s lower in alcohol content, travels well, could be mistaken for spa water by the police and just seems festive as fuck. A bitch keeps it simple: White wine, Sprite Zero/Club Soda, peaches, strawberries, lemon slices and mint. VOILÀ.

If you are at all hesitant to round up your bitches, rent a rape van and invest in a good manchego, just remember that knowing a disappointing truth is better than forever wondering… Information is power, people are shady and Sangria Stakeout’s are legal. Think about it.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

For my gentile readers who may not have known, we are amidst the Jewish New Year formally known as Rosh Hashanah. It is one of the only days where frizzy haired Jews head to the nearest synagogue to husband hunt, swap rhinoplasty stories and judge each other’s temple ensembles. It is also the beginning of a 10 day period of reflection and repentance.

It has always been my favorite holiday because it gives me a January 1st redo and this bitch LIVES for a good list, this being the faux-intentioned resolution list I get to make for myself and others not once, but TWICE a year. Naturally I have zero intention of following any of these but those who can’t reflect, deflect. So….

  1. Ban the following articles from my wardrobe; maxi dresses, peplum, crochet monokinis, any embellished headbands, moccasins, wedge sneakers, mesh insert dresses, vests and anything made of vegan fabric… ew.
  2. Stop body shaming my boyfriend. One amazing trick to a happy and healthy relationship is to keep your better half humble. I like to slowly but surely create completely false insecurities to keep people I love appreciative and indebted to me for my brutal honesty and understanding. I often refer to my significant as “pear shaped” when in reality is eggplant shaped and hott as fuck. I still find this to be hilarious but also really want him to put the money he may invest in thigh gap lipo towards an engagement ring so I guess I will stop.
  3. Learn the difference between a city, state and country. I was too busy trying to reconstruct the texture of my jew-fro and cultivating charisma in middle school to pay attention in Geography. It’s called Google Maps bitch. HOWEVER, I thought Hawaii was it’s own country up until 7 weeks ago which is not ideal. I also thought Isis was a new upscale snow cone shop.
  4. Instill a lifelong Kardashian Kleanse. I will no longer be discussing them. I am trying to be a fucking intellect over here and they no longer fit into my new cerebral life #growth.
  5. Incorporate some form of physical activity in my day to day life. I hate people who say they “love to exercise” I think anyone who says that is a dirty liar. I personally love eating whatever I want without consequences a fuck lot more then busting my ass on a treadmill. I don’t drink water because I am being respectful of the drought and I avoid anything gluten free because I have a fucking SOUL. Regardless, it would be nice to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without a side cramp.
  6. Stop cussing so fucking much.
  7. No longer use my digestive system as a go-to topic of conversation at social gatherings. As much as the bartender making my dirty martini is wildly riveted by my state of constipation, I think it is time for me to be more selective and mysterious in regards to my bowel movements. I like to think acknowledging my food baby is a great way to bond with a stranger but apparently some people think it’s uncomfortable.

Wish me luck and Shana Tova bitches.

Dr. Schimmel

I have always loved doling out advice… usually in the form of a vintage Britney Spears lyric or sad bumper sticker. Unfortunately 98% of the time I am too busy thinking about when the McRib is coming back into my life to give my full attention to other peoples problems but I try and give it a solid 54%. Here is the result of that from this week’s podcast. Live your dreams.

PREQUEL SEQUEL:

Fuck Fuckboys

I am aware that I’m always 6 months late to millennial slang. A term I have been grappling (big word) with as of late is “fuckboy”. What is this mythical fuckboy? After my misunderstanding of Trap Queen (which I figured was a bitch who swaps birth control for tic tacs and traps men with a fetus) I felt it absolutely necessary to go straight to the superior source… urban dictionary.

Fuckboy (noun)

A Fuckboy is the type of guy who does shit that generally pisses the population of the earth off all the time. He will also lead girls on just for hookups, says he’s really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to fuck you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time but pretends to be really nice. He also does really fucked up shit and then complains about people who do the same old shit as him. Once a fuckboy always a fuckboy, because fuck boys ganna be fuckboys.

Cuh-yoot. When you really think about it, potential fuckboys can only blossom into bonafied fuckboys with our permission and allowance. The key to eliminating the species is to disable the fuckboy. That is not a physical threat calm the fuck down. What I mean is that fuckboys can only be relevant if we as females ENABLE the fuck boy. The second you get a whiff of Armani Acqua di fucking Gio find the nearest chastity belt and head for the hills. An estrogenous love side-affect is that sometimes we equate all SEX to deeper feelings. While in the land of Nicholas Sparks, intimacy is all pancakes in bed, love letters and fucking swans; unfortunately the only intentions we ever REALLY can know are our own. The harsh truth is that once a fuckboy, almost ALWAYS a fuckboy. So while we are envisioning 365 letters, and dying side by side in some waspy plantation hospice a la the Notebook, your fuckboy just needs a willing (hopefully) orifice.

If he’s not taking you to dinner but is regularly sleeping with you, he’s a fuckboy. If he is platonic on the streets and freak in the sheets, he’s a fuckboy. If he doesn’t believe in labels, but his phone is full of them i.e.; “Blonde girl from Chateau” “Kylie from NYC” “Buttaface Barbara”, he’s a fucking fuckboy.

Ladies. Guys put their penises in their OWN FUCKING HAND. The same hand they high five their boss with, pump their gas with and wipe their ass with. Having a guy want to sleep with you repeatedly without any form of commitment means he is a fuckboy and WORSE you are a fuckboy enabler. Remember this as a mantra for recovery, penne before penetration. (That was supposed to be clever… Penne is a noodle often served at romantic Italian restaurants)

Playas gonna play. Talkers gonna talk. Fuckboys gonna fuck. And bitches better WALK.

Editors Note: I apologize to my family for the excessive fucks and to readers for my desperate rhyme schemes and alliterations.

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

LeBron Shames

Today is a day that has challenged all my serotonin levels. I know its popular to bitch about Mondays but when you are a mediocre d-list blogger/podcast host, it’s always the fucking weekend. I woke up feeling fresh and ready for my favorite night of television ahead (Bachelor in Paradise and RHOC) and went to kick off my week with a double wheatgrass shot #earthy. For the record, Jamba Juice is the WORST place to get any sort of good news. Everyone is more concerned about their free boost and although the staff is chipper, they are really just ready to get the fuck out of there so they can head back to the community college they came from. No offense…

As I waited in line my phone pinged alerting me of a new follower on twitter. As you can tell from the post below, followers are a huge part of my life. I love them more than most people in my family despite never actually meeting them. Family is bound to you by blood, social media followers have to make a conscious effort. It’s more sincere. Anyways, I check my phone to see who my new follower might be secretly praying for a minority (need to broaden my audience) and was delighted to see my new follower was a lovely chocolate man named Lebron, Lebron James. Why does that sound so familiar? Hmm. Did we go to high school together? We couldn’t have… I know every black person within a 10 mile radius of my hometown by name. I decide to further investigate.

Holy fucking shit balls. Lebron fucking James followed me on twitter. I contemplated buying a round of wheatgrass for everyone in that place but I’m jewish so that seems super fiscally irresponsible. He only follows 180 people, so naturally I assume he must be really in love with me. I knew buying those oversized hoop earrings was going to be lucrative. Fuck I am urban.

For the next 38 minutes I called every heterosexual male I knew, emailed my dad alerting him I am a big fucking deal and started thinking of cute biracial names for the bastard child I planned on having aka my child support turned shoe funds. Sienna seems too Arian and Laquisha seems too on the nose. Maybe something obscure like Melon? That could garner some good publicity.

As I settled into my local sushi place for a celebratory sashimi (had to get my raw fish fix before I was knocked up with Lebron’s child) I decided it would only be polite to send him a tweet thanking him for the follow. I figured I would utilize the perks of direct messaging as opposed to a basic tweet, that’s for gross commoners. We were basically dating.

As I went to send him a message I realized I was not allotted the option to directly message him… that’s odd? Maybe he doesn’t allow direct messages? I then scrolled through his elite selection of 184 people he follows on twitter assuming I was still one of them. After 4 scrolls I realized I was no longer apart of the club….

What the fucking fuck? Is it my hair? Am I not funny via twitter? Is it because I talk too openly about my digestion? WHY LEBRON WHY? Lebron James followed me on twitter for 43 minutes and it was the best 43 minutes of my life. Like some dumb fuck once said; Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. Lebron, I am here when you are ready to come back to me… arms and ovaries open.

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#thewaywewere

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 YouPorn.com 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!

Bitches You Shouldn’t Trust

This list is incredibly arbitrary and fueled by rosé and benadryl. I am sorry if this offends anyone. Just kidding I don’t give a flying fuck, I have gained 3 pounds and am suffering from 7 spider bites. Shoot me in the face. Have a lovely day. 

Never trust a bitch whose favorite color is PURPLE. Purple is for Quinceañeras and Barney the rapey dinosaur. Anyone over the age of 8 who loves purple is either a mentally unstable substitute teacher, Justin Bieber or colorblind. It’s a terrible color and should be banned from the rainbow. Lavender is tolerable (although I also don’t trust people who use pretentious color labels like Chartreuse, Mauve, Fuchsia, etc – get over yourself) but straight up PURPLE is appalling.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t like pickles. How does one not enjoy a crisp kosher dill? I have only found one instance that has proven me wrong on this theory. 99.9% of people who don’t like pickles are raging sociopaths and generally unfortunate.

Never trust a bitch who “doesn’t watch television”. Bullfuckingshit. Oh you think you’re so above basic entertainment value? How artsy. What are you doing INSTEAD of ever watching tv? Taxidermy? Murdering your neighbors? It’s just creepy and odd and usually not true.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t let their children wear two piece swimsuits. This is just a quirk of mine. I used to work at a summer camp and always categorized the mothers in accordance to what swimwear they put their kids in. Bikinis? Cool. Tankinis? Traditional. Heinous Speedo tiedye one pieces? Basically Amish. Rash guards and zinc? Social Services.

Never trust a bitch who always wears false lashes (in particular STRIP lashes) I am talking to you Lilly Ghalichi. If I was on the precipice of life or death and my one task was to successfully apply faux lashes to grant me life, I would die a torturous death.

Never trust a bitch with no long-term friends. If you haven’t known and stayed friends with at least one person you went to elementary school with, you are probably an untrustworthy asshole. If you haven’t stayed close with someone you have known for over 2/3 of your life something ain’t right.

Never trust a bitch with a “Facebook Stage Name”. If your name is Christina Rosenberg, you don’t need to go by Chrissy Rose. Use your own fucking name, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino. 

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: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod