I’m sorry if I have revoked you of my wicked yet totally charming and likeable (right?) stream of bitchiness for the past couple of weeks. I am actually not entirely sorry, sometimes a bitch needs a break to refresh, reboot and refill…
I have been volunteering at a third world country grammar school building jungle gyms and planning my next philanthropy event “Cycling for Syphilis”. I have met so many people my age who are tits deep in charity work and it just baffles me. Aren’t we supposed to save that for later in life when we’re bored and trying to fluff up our children’s college applications? Duh.
Really, I was in Europe with my boyfriend having serious sexual relations with every carb and cheese wheel in sight. On the tail end of our trip my boyfriend had a last minute change of scheduling and needed to fly back to LA four days early. I decided to stay solo and had one of the most therapeutic experiences in my short, unimportant life. I instantly compared it to the 2010 classic ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and decided to carry on the theme for the entirety of my time alone.
EAT Holy fuck, can I eat. When you are paying for your own meals at restaurants you really get the breakdown of your appetite. When I go out I tend to split a few different things (I am a food commitment-phobe, I like to sample) so I always assume I am only eating my share. I am in for a seriously rude awakening when my metabolism slows down. Everyone keeps asking me “Did you shop? Buy anything special?” No I didn’t fucking SHOP. But I did fucking eat… EVERYTHING. Snails, veal tartare, frog legs, cheese, bread, pastries, you name it. If it could fit in my facehole, I ate it. Excess consumption + shy digestive traits = struggle. Thank god outerwear is bulky because this bitch has never needed an elastic waistband more. The best part? I don’t fucking care. Who needs a hot body when you’ve got Photoshop and charisma for days? Sure I almost had to buy an extra seat to accommodate my hot new muffin top a la Kevin Smith but who gives a fuck. I virtually didn’t have a vegetable in 2 weeks. I tried to completely emerge myself in the culture balls deep and if it seemed authentic and illegal to consume at home, I ate it. At this point I am practically bleeding Béarnaise and I would have it no other way.
PRAY LAY I am notoriously super antsy. If I sit in one place too long I become very disruptive in order to keep myself entertained. I’ll put ice cubes on people’s thighs under the dining table, start making prank calls, or just kick it old school and go into one of my standard panic attacks. I am about 20 years late to the Ritalin party. I am saving that prescription for my post-twenties weight gain. It’s easy to get wrapped up in our bullshit Snapchats, overly filtered Instagram posts and passive aggressive tweets. We are so busy editing our faux lives that we can often forget to really live and appreciate our REAL lives. I started really thinking about how lucky I was to be in a position to travel alone and how truly definitive these moments are. The truth is if you can’t just be with yourself, why would anyone else want to? I had this very strange experience of almost disassociating with my body and becoming my own travel partner. Clinically, I believe that would be considered bipolar disorder. I have so many new inside jokes with myself it’s crazy. I learned through solitude and one too many solo dirty martinis that I actually really like myself and enjoy my own company. So I wasn’t laying in the grass like a fucking vegan poet but I did learn the value of slowing down and tuning out. (Nothing else rhymed with PRAY)
LOVE SHOVE I have a wild pigeon phobia. Not like in a cute quirky way, like in a psychologically crippling, downward spiral, tears of fear way. It is ADORABLE. I want them all to die and I have never meant anything more. If I had a gun and better hand eye coordination I would devote my life to hunting and murdering every single fucking pigeon I could find. Whatever shift in the ecosystem that would cause would be worth it. My name is Jackie Schimmel, and I want all pigeons dead for a better tomorrow. In fact, in France I actually ATE a pigeon over potatoes au gratin for poetic justice. In Europe, they are EVERYWHERE. Whilst with a travel partner, it is much easier to disguise the downward spiral that ensues when I see one within 5 feet of me. Normally, I can hide behind someone I am with or close my eyes and let them guide me through the streets. When alone, I look like I have schizophrenia. I twitch, scream, cry and flail my limbs like Amanda Bynes. It’s just not something you can recover from. If I hear a wing flap I instantly burn 3,000 calories, it’s how I keep my figure. I had to externally keep composure while walking on the street simply to avoid being institutionalized. I tried mantras, deep breathing and drinking wine I poured into a travel-sized water bottle. However, none of these tactics worked out for me. When I saw a devil-bird swoop and land inches away from my face, talons first, I shoved a poor geriatric in front of me for shield and sacrifice. I did this a lot… not great but oddly grounding.
So now I am back to reality, with traces of Foie Gras still in my colon and the shrill sound of wing flapping keeping my seratonin levels amiss.