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.

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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.

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.

Full Confrontal

For the first quarter century of my life I have been absolutely petrified of confrontation. I owe at least $6,000 in late fees to Blockbuster just because I could never show my face there again after being delinquent with my rented collection of Nancy Meyers films. The possibility of scrutiny or any awkward conversation literally gives me diarrhea.

A few months ago I came to the harsh realization that my perpetual “non-confrontational” shtick was not only unhealthy, but also kind of made me full of shit. Metaphorically, not digestively, obvi. I know it may seem very contradictory that someone like yours truly would be non-confrontational, but here’s what would go down: I’d hear that a friend of mine would talk shit about me and do nothing about it. I’d pretend like it never happened, act like a phony ass bitch, and slowly distance myself without any explanation. Ultimately, I’d end up looking like the bigger asshole for being flaky. I’d never acknowledge what REALLY happened in order to avoid confrontation-induced diarrhea. It’s a vicious (and sometimes slimming) cycle.

When the tables are turned and I am confronted or feel cornered, I go into fight mode and will turn into a savage hyena. I also think the root of my non-confrontationalism is because in all other aspects of my life I am so loud and obnoxious. Or I am just lazy as shit and don’t have the energy to deal.

The problem is that when you don’t speak up when something bothers you, one of two things happens:

  1. you vent to others, things get lost in translation, you end up being a shady fuck
  2. you suppress all emotions and then one day snap and become Gone Girl.

Being non-confrontational is fan-fucking-tastic if you are brokering a peace treaty for terrorists but not in your everyday life. Someone much smarter than me once said, “Avoiding conflict doesn’t extinguish conflict.” So before you internalize your issues and ultimately find yourself in a state of digestive disarray, cut the bullshit and speak the fuck up.

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:

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!

Bennifer

Today is the worst day. I can’t remember feeling this melancholy since Jessie Spano almost overdosed on caffeine pills on Saved by The Bell. I take celebrity couples really fucking seriously. Perhaps I am a delusional closet romantic who stupidly thinks marriage is forever and everyone shits rose petals but I am more deeply affected by a celeb break-up than those of people I actually know.

This morning my whole world was turned upside down as I was eating my “fuck my bikini bod” Belgian waffle and perusing Huffington Post. I almost choked when I read the headline announcing Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garners divorce. This hurts me in every cell, organ and orifice. WHY? They seemed so normal and wholesome. The only silver lining is that there may be a Bennifer resurrection, which would make all my wildest dreams come true. Can you imagine a Jenny From The Block 2015 remix with Ben in the new video? It’s basically the only thing keeping me sane at this point.

Thank God the Gays can get married now, we need them to drive up our countries marital success rate. Gays were BORN to plan weddings; swans, chandeliers, chincy appetizers, embellishment. Duh.

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Ben, I will stepmother Violet, Seraphina and Melon or whatever the other ones called with ease. Call me babycakes. While this is difficult for me to comprehend, a bitch must remember not to cry cause it’s over but smile because it happened. BUT if John Krasinski and Emily Blunt, Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan or Aaron Paul and whoever his hott wife is break up… I am going to kill myself and that’s a promise.

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. 

Dangers of The Double Tap

For those of you have been living as your BEST self and subscribe to The Bitch Bible podcast series, you are already privy to my social media catastrophe that occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was an uneventful Wednesday night and I decided to delight in my usual midweek Instagram troll. I just earned a follow from an old “boyfriend” whom I “dated” for about 16 days when I was 15 years old. We were basically a prepubescent Jewish Kimye. I weighed 76 pounds, had braces and a personality I was not pretty enough to pull off. He was in desperate need of Accutane, played Lacrosse and drove a station wagon. True love.

I had just figured he died since I had not seen, heard or spoke to him in almost a decade. I broke up with him via text message and said I couldn’t do a long distance relationship. He went to a high school 1.3 mile away from mine and geographically was very undesirable for a bitch with only a permit and a bus pass. I expected him to write me 365 letters and beg for me to take him back but that didn’t happen and our love flame was extinguished.

Cut to 2015, me sitting on the couch with a face mask on and a stiff martini exploring the depths of his Instagram profile. Boy did I dodge a bullet. I won’t blow up his spot, but this fucker really likes Lake Havasu. Not my vibe. Naturally upon seeing an anniversary collage (gag me) he posted with his new girlfriend I clicked on her tag and was overwhelmed with joy to find her profile PUBLIC. Yahtzee.

After scrolling back nearly 94 weeks back, I must have been twitching in satiation because I accidentally liked a bikini bod selfie which was ironically ALSO taken in Lake Havasu aka the land of canned domestic beer, acrylic nails and regret. Holy ball fuck. OBVIOUSLY I immediately unliked it but the damage was already done. Three hours later I received the following text from my ex-soulmate aware of my mishap. I considered maintaining a morsel of self respect and not responding but that would be far too rational. Instead I decided to almost guarantee a restraining order, enjoy.

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I would say I am ashamed but that would be a lie. For more in depth analysis on this issue please listen to my podcast series and you will not regret it. Subscribe here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod

HAGS BITCH

Summer is high season for the basic bitch. This is when they get to bust out their high-heeled sandals, polish off their sad Tiffany kidney bean necklace and pick up their terry cloth Juicy Couture tube dress from the dry cleaners. Is that SPF 4 Hawaiian Tropic oil stained Michael Kors watch I smell? Ah yes. School’s out and so are the basic bitches social graces. In fear of appearing pretentious and GOOP-esque with a sad “Summer Must Have” list I thought it would be better to have a list of things NOT to rock this summer.

Poolside Heels Crystal Hefner called and wants her look back. I have never understood the psychology behind wearing a platformed stiletto next to a slippery pool. In conjunction with a side tied sarong and you might as well go get that butterfly tramp stamp and get into the adult film industry. It’s tacky and quite frankly just dangerous.

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Tropical Beach Towel This seems a bit dramatic but nothing pisses me off more than a brightly colored, low absorbency, tropical themed beach towel. It doesn’t matter how strong your cover up and accessory game is, being the bitch that walks in with a hot pink towel with a fucking dolphin on it is a bad look. Just fucking air-dry or stick to solids

5

Glasses like this… No explanation necessary.

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Ruffle Skirts and/or Mullet Skirts These had their moment a decade ago. If you find yourself wearing something that even looks vaguely similar to an outfit worn by Paris Hilton on “The Simple Life” it’s time to hand off to your housekeeper.

ruffled_skirts

Flower Nail Art The Hawaiian flower with the rhinestone on your big toenail is not nail art, it is a nail tragedy. Unless you are 4 years old or your boyfriend bought you a season pass to Six Flags as an anniversary present this is no longer socially acceptable. So next time your Vietnamese nail technician points her jade bangled hand at your toe and says, “You won flowah and esstra fiteen min muhssage?” JUST SAY NO. You’re welcome.

Beautiful Flower Nail Art

Your High School Bae This one goes out to my bitches that just graduated high school, I know you think you and little Timmy are going to effortlessly continue a long distance relationship while he stays home and attends community college while simultaneously being the best damn sandwich artist Subway has ever seen and you head off to ASU to pursue Public Relations while simultaneously learning how to make Jell-O shots in your dorm room, but it’s not going to work.

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A Custom Ringtone If every time your phone rings, Maroon 5’s “Sugar” or Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” plays it is time to re-evaluate your life decisions. Opt for a tasteful vibrate or any other default ringtone. I would rather hear the cry of a dying childhood pet than a personalized ringtone. Well, maybe not my dying dog. I could deal with a cat cry, they are assholes.

HAGS B.

Bachelorette Recap

So after everyone acknowledges JJ and Clint are back door lovers, Kaitlyn pulls Clint aside and gives his vest-wearing ass the boot. I will say it once, I will say it again – never trust a bitch in a vest. Unless they are making your dirty martinis or are a fucking vampire in hiding. It always amuses me how emotional the Bachelorettes get after like 1.3 days of knowing the guys. Boohoo. When Clint gets cut, JJ goes flaccid and then demands an apology from Clint. What a butt chinned biatch. On the real, their sexual tension is OFF THE CHARTS. Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey got NOTHING on that chemistry. WHY THE FUCK IS JJ CRYING AND WHY DO I WANT TO KICK HIM IN THE THROAT SO BADLY?

The gang heads to New York to find love in the big apple. How adorable. Doug E. Fresh joins the group date and all the white midwestern guys pretend to be huge fans. Super cultural! The rap battle is the most depressing and Arian shit of all time, but lingering in the crowds is virgin Ashley (who looks hott) and creeper Nick. Conveniently, he decides to rear his Jew curl frizzed head once filming starts so he can further delay being a real man with a real career. THIRSTY.

Jared scores the one on one date and he is #STOKED. I am still judging him for wearing bright yellow converse and homeboy needs a Crest white strip in a jiffy but he’s cute in a gerbil-esque way.

ABC busts out a really ominous strange montage of dramatic NYC scenery while we hear a phone call between Kaitlyn and Nick and she still can’t make up her fucking mind. Then Kaitlyn does what any other gal dating 65 guys on national television would do, invites her side bitch to meet only after getting her weave worked by that psychopath Ashley. I am over all these cameos. If the network is looking to spice up the show cant they just hire a transgender Bachelorette? Or shoot the season from a psych ward?

Nick, hot tip: when deciding your romantic fate, don’t dress up like Mr. Rogers in a rapey maroon cardigan. Lucky for him, Kaitlyn lets him and his offensive outerwear stay and join the other guys at the hotel.

Jared is really living up to his Restaurant Manager job title in that tux. Back at the hotel, the rest of the guys bitch about the situation and all I can focus on is Ian’s hair growth situation… Jared busts out a poem Shel Silverstein would shoot himself in the asshole for. Then they get in a helicopter and blah blah blah.

For the group date, Kaitlyn makes the guys audition for a Broadway play and we all learn the dentist is a homosexual, hence the light washed denim. Chris wins the one on one date and I learn in this episode that this Cupcake boy bugs the fuck out of me. They climb up to the New Years Eve ball and he squeals with glee over seeing a big shiny ball in the flesh. Chris loves Broadway and balls. Think about it. Broadway. Balls.

Nick moves in and the rest is to be continued…

Side Bitch 101

We need to address an epidemic sweeping the nation and compromising our gender morale… the social outbreak of the SIDE BITCH. In life you either want to be the USDA prime filet mignon (a la cart) or the basic baked potato. It doesn’t matter HOW MANY BACON BITS AND CHIVES YOU DROWN YOURSELF IN, you aren’t the mother fucking entree. This reads harsh because it seems wildly obvious and baffles me how many side bitches live in denial.
“He works so much”, “His great aunt’s dog died”, “He has a yeast infection” the truth is, if he isn’t taking you to dinner, has never seen you in daylight and still has a parenthesis in your contact info… For example: Jackie Schimmel (neurotic bitch with blonde hair), you are the sidest bitch on the block.

I can speak informatively on this subject because I have been a side bitch. It was brief and it was brutal. He only offered me his roommates alcohol,  only saw me after 9pm on Wednesdays and I am almost positive thought my name was Jade. He would occasionally bring me to work events because I am sociable, can clean up well with a professional blowdry and know how to handle my alcohol. I was poor and would date about anyone I could steal fruit snacks from. I eventually pretended he was hit by a truck and ignored his late night calls. SIDENOTE: Anthony if you are reading this, you are short, rude and smell like latex and failed entrepreneurship. Phew, that felt good.

So let’s assume you are a few chromosomes short and are unsure if you too are the lukewarm creamed spinach in the meal of your romantic life. For your convenience here is an idiot proof list.

You only hang out on weekdays, specifically ones with none of his selected television programs. Plans are usually made an hour in advance and typically take place at his apartment or god willingly his condo, I love a man with real estate. Saturdays simply don’t exist in a side bitches world.

You’ve never met any of his friends, or if you have it was in a very large and very casual group setting. Very few details are shared regarding your relationship and sober affection is virtually non existent.

You don’t do dinner. This has a loophole for manorexics who simply are gearing up for their summer bod, but usually is because they don’t want to have the intimacy that comes with sharing a meal together. Dinner=dating=monogamy=girlfriend=death.

You aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, nothing matters in life unless it’s FBO (Facebook Official) not your education, not your career, not your love life. You think you’re above Facebook proclamations? Or is that the side bitch universal code of conduct…. Think about it.

You can’t get him to accompany you to ANY event. Asking him to be your plus one at your friends wedding is basically like asking him if you can murder his whole family and then sell their organs on the black market. You find yourself bribing him to be with you. This is a low point.

You’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it 400 times… “he doesn’t do labels”. Let me be very clear, if a guy is into you he doesn’t want you to be with anyone else. It’s an animalistic testosterone thing. I am not a biologist but it’s the truth. Guys who “don’t want to rush things, don’t like labels and aren’t ready for a girlfriend” are fucking other people and probably on a Saturday.

You are reading this list and are having a mega epiphany that all of the above runs scarily parallel to your current situation. Mazel Tov, you are a side bitch. Although this is hard to accept and even harder to free up your Wednesday late night rendevous, remember it is always better to be the Filet Mignon (or Tofu Steak if you’re a sad vegan) than the fucking baked potato #ENTREELIFE

SB MB

The only thing sadder then living as a side bitch is that I spent 15 minutes out of my day creating the visual above. For more tough love download, subscribe and share The Bitch Bible podcast series here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod

TOO MANY FEELINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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