truth

#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.

 

Dear DJ James Kennedy (Part Duex)

Dear DJ James Kennedy,

Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.

As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?

From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.

I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.

Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.

Love always,

Jackie

Eff 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Brooks Ayers

Dear Brooks Ayers,

Firstly, I must thank you for blocking me on Twitter. There is no way I could truly illustrate all the ways you disgust me in 140 characters so a public letter is really the only way to go. I have always said you should never trust a man in light wash denim and I want to thank you for proving this theory true. Also Brooks, you look like you shouldn’t be permitted within 650 feet of any elementary school so congratulations on that.

It is one thing to fake a relative’s death to avoid dinner plans. I do that shit ALL the time, my great Aunt Esther has already died 8 times conveniently when a Nancy Meyers movie is on and I have an open bottle of Vueve. It’s a whole other level of vile to lie about having fucking CANCER. To even concoct such a story you have to be the sickest of fucks.

What makes you a real scumbag is that you not only LIED about a diagnosis, you then solidified your corruptness by doctoring fake medical records. What a fucking moron. This is 2015; we have cars that drive themselves. You think no one is going to disprove your faux illness because you give your side bitch Vicki daily affirmations? You are a pussy. I hope a stray cow roaming outside the low income duplex where you live in Montana shoves it’s hoof up your ass and knocks a veneer out.

I desperately hope Vicki was not in on this hoax, as I have loved Vicki passionately ever since she assaulted that poor Asian man for the “family van” incident of 2008. I have loved her age-inappropriate party dresses, her chin and her heinous kitchen rooster forever. Love is blind, but not that fucking blind.

People die from cancer. You have not just insulted people who are battling this life threatening disease but also the families suffering and undermining the hard work of physicians everywhere. I am not “going to pray for you” Brooks because you are an asshole and you need more than a bedside prayer. Jesus may forgive you but I sure as fuck don’t. Go fuck yourself Brooks, because probably no one else will you evil hillbilly.

Love always (not),

Jackie

JOMO

I have been on a very spiritual journey lately. One that includes excess fromage, disguising my Ashkenazi hair in this fog (#isis) and learning how to cope with aggressive pigeons sans sedatives. It’s all been very Eat, Pray, Love. Or more like, Eat, Overpay (currency rate probs), Shove. For those of you not stalking me or interested in my whereabouts, I have been in London for the past month.

Since my arrival there have been no shortage of fabulous group activities so during the week I am rewarded with my much needed alone time. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how socially uncultivated I am. I can go HOURS without any human interaction and feel incredibly mentally stimulated, more so than after a lengthy dinner with friends. At first I thought this may make me bipolar and it’s the voices in my head that keep me entertained. I have since realized that I must be a complete narcissist because I really fucking love hanging out with myself.

I think people assume that when you uproot your life and move (temporarily) to a foreign country it is polite to try and include said import in social plans and activities. Being that we have a very present social group here in London I have come to the harsh realization that my antisocial nature has followed me internationally.

According to the internet we are the FOMO generation. Honestly, fuck off. I hate FOMO and anyone who uses that term seriously. Fear of missing out? Did you not get hugged as a child? Why do people rely so heavily on social outings and being in the know? I would like to propose a new way of living… JOMO. Joy of missing out. I have been the poster child for JOMO since I crawled from the flaming pits of hell as a small adorable baby. I hate being invited places. The truth is if I want to go anywhere, I will just show up. I find that it has a very high success rate and I always bring a bottle of something.

When someone initiates social plans one of two things happen. Depending on my level of comfortability I will either immediately decline (my closest friends can attest) with a curt “NO” or consider the outing with a tepid “Do I have to? Will there be valet and/or snacks provided?” My other less desirable option is coming up with a very elaborate excuse. I normally lean towards a family death involving a very distant relative (less questions) which can be a real nightmare. I have accidentally had my Great Aunt Shirley die twice during a desperate scheduling conflict. With every cash bar invitation, conveniently my 98-year-old Aunt Shirley bites the big one. Time after time.

I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I wont. Every time you find yourself hungrily trying to confirm “where and when and what time and who?” with the perseverance of starved hyena, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself this; why am I acting like such dependently needy asshole? Has anyone suffering from this “disease” ever considered that the reason they aren’t being invited places is because they are annoying as fuck. Brew on that for a second.

You know why an aged cheese is more expensive? Because it’s fully developed into the delectable version of it’s best self. It’s not afraid to showcase its mold or pungent smell. The cheese has spent time alone and matured. IT DOESN’T NEED CRACKERS OR A FIG SPREAD. I apologize for this cheese tangent… I have been in a sexual relationship with blue stilton for the past week. Sorry, back to the point.

The harsh truth is that if the mere thought of being alone sends you into a Lexapro prescription, FOMO is just the band-aid on the actual wound of a much bigger ailment. Go to dinner, take a trip, see a movie, go shopping, go for a bike ride ALONE. Jomo is the new Fomo.

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.

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.

I Hate Target & So Should You

I have been having a series of epiphanies for the last 3 months. First I realized and accepted the fact that I have never and WILL never think the television show “Friends” is funny. Then I realized that while I often talk about pop culture and celebrity gossip, I am capitalizing off of people who are most likely better looking and more talented than I which makes me hypocritical and also semi-stupid. But yesterday I may have experienced the harshest realization of all… one that not only sequesters myself from humanity but also seems totally unpatriotic. My name is Jackie Schimmel and I fucking HATE Target. If you have already blocked me on Instagram and put me on your hit list right above Abu Nazir, please give me a moment to explain myself.

The first thing that aroused my Target-hatred was my deep confusion with the checkout process at fucking Target. WHAT DICKHEAD DESIGNED THE DOUBLE CASHIER LANES? Am I in line for register 1 or 3? Why is there only gross Aquafina available in the drink cooler? How many chain restaurant gift cards, Eos chapsticks and travel packed Wet Wipes am I supposed to be distracted with before I realize that I have been waiting 37 minutes to buy a subpar Sonia Kashuk makeup brush?

Another thing that grinds my gears are the endless Designer collaborations. The whole reason you BUY actual designer clothing is to insure it’s not made of polyester and on a shelf next to a pair of Mossimo mom jeans. I will admit I was a consenting victim to the Missoni for Target riot of 2010. I pulled my labia after shoving an innocent housewife out of my way for the chevron coffee mugs. Now Nate Berkus gets to hawk $25 gold office staplers and people think they are fashion forward and progressive because they own something designed by Oprahs token homo. No, just no.

Sometimes you can’t just hate the game, you can also hate the players.. Targets customer demographic is one that I have tried to avoid like a Nigerian plague. It’s not that I hate white people in stretch pants with excess fat children, it’s just that I hate everything they stand for. Every time I drive up to a Target and see the surplus of mini vans and women in orthopedic footwear, a part of my soul dies and I consider leaving the country. People, if you are in Target buying economy sized barrels of Cheese Puffs which you allow your offspring to start eating in the checkout line, you need to seriously re-evaluate your life choices.

And beyond all this bullshit, nothing is that good of a deal. I can say with full confidence that all alcohol, toiletries, home decor and electronics are equal to or exceed the price of any other major retailers. Last week I spent $1.79 on fucking GREEN ONIONS at Target. Mossimo can go fuck themselves with their $29.99 cotton zip up hoodies and Merona should burn in hell for even thinking that thin brimmed fedoras are still marketable.

Target is the enemy. Target is insulting our integrity and intelligence. Target is everything that’s wrong with America in a big red box. Target even gave their own fucking mascot a black (red) eye.

targetdog-300x190

Expect less, pay more.

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. 

You’re An Asshole

My friend Heidi and I were discussing the benefits (branding wise) I could attain if I contracted or faked some small non-life threatening disease. We decided an STD would be too hard to pull off and probably a bad look long term. Although a Chlamydia endorsement could be super lucrative. Syphilis seems cute too. Maybe a new strain of hepatitis? Maybe not. We decided Fibromyalgia would be perfect for me and despite having no clue what it is, I’m pretty positive I have it. So you should all feel bad for me and subscribe to my podcast series to help me with my disease. Bless you.

I’ve been thinking a lot about assholes lately. Not the orifice but the notable group of people who are a constant life suck. I could probably find a better diagnosis with some psychoanalysis and then conclude what factors in their life MADE them such an asshole but that seems like a waste of my time and also totally impertinent #DEFLECTING.

Recently, an ex friend of mine reached out to grab drinks. While I pondered getting my hair professionally done and telling her how much better my life is without her trying to bang my boyfriends, I decided that she was and always will be an asshole and my barely dirty martini with blue cheese olives would have to be consumed at home. Assholes tend to blame their overall suck to various people, places or things. They didn’t get hugged as a child, they have no money, Selena’s death really ruined their faith in mankind, whatever, bidi bidi bom bom. The truth is, while many of these life factors are influential and upsetting, they are all irrelevant and invalidated as an excuse for being an asshole.

If you’ve had problems with almost every person in your life, you are an asshole. If you only had 3 people (minus Tom) on your Myspace Top 8, you are an asshole. If Jesus is the only person who is regularly forgiving you, you are an asshole.  No offense to God but salvation and atonement should start in the home. Hiding behind something that is legitimately sacred and cherished by non-assholes shouldn’t be abused by people who can’t get their shit together. It’s like carrying a fake designer handbag, don’t ruin it for the rest of us please and thank you. My ex-friend would puke in your purse, bang your boyfriend and then go on a Church retreat and tell me she was forgiven. That’s chic but I still think you are an asshole.

Another huge aspect of general asshole-ness is victimization. So you’ve pissed everyone in your life off and now you feel bad for yourself and everyone else should too. Poor little a-hole. Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. Pity parties are the fucking worst and usually include a very short guest list and a cash bar. Clearly empathy has never been my strong suit but it’s pretty difficult for me to feel sorry for people who’s woes are all self inflicted. I feel sorry to the kids starving in Africa, people killed due to genocide and Yolanda Foster #lymebrain.

The hardest part about BEING an asshole is accepting that you’re an asshole. And to be honest, assholes usually stay assholes until they die an asshole and then have a super assholey afterlife. Right? Right. Assholes are like assholes, everyone’s got one.

To end things delicately, a poem:
If you’re still upset that as a kid, your daddy missed you make your first goal,
Or while all the other kids got Barbie dream houses, Santa only gave you coal,
And while all your peers went to college, and instead you chose the pole,
Realize it’s not anyone else’s fault, that you became an asshole.

Love,

Jackie

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

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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

THAT FUCKING DRESS…

Here is my truth, I don’t care if that fucking dress is white, gold, black, blue or made of human flesh. I understand that my cynicism seems unwarranted since I am someone who makes my livelihood through public forums. My issue with this dress is not it’s color but more so it’s polyester Herve Leger knockoff design that is almost 3 years off trend and could be found on the sale rack at Bebe.

Perhaps I am just a bitter little troll, pissed that none of my content has even become 1/10 as viral as this dress debacle. I don’t care if Moses reincarnated and told me the dress is magenta and chartreuse… in the viral photo all I see is a white and gold dissapointment. I have spent many a lonely night adjusting the saturation of a potential Instagram picture to make me look ethnically tan… but at the end of the day I am just a pastey Jew-bitch who relies on bronzer and a good filter.

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Before you send me a Huffington Post article criticizing the strength of my retinas, ask yourself “who honestly gives a fuck?” I have housewives to watch, a carton of mint chip ice cream to molest and about 3 days of undigested food to weather.

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.

Struggles of an Extroverted Introvert

Every once in a while I am hit with a midnight martini epiphany. Last month I came to the conclusion I don’t really think the show ‘Friends’ is funny. The month before I made a short-lived vow to only buy local produce. Last week I convinced myself all this Amanda Bynes drama is a genius hoax on the public for a majorly well-concealed documentary premiering at Sundance a la Joaquin Phoenix.

Last night, I finally got a grasp on the complexities of my personality. I like to dramatically categorize all things in my life especially types of people. Optimists and pessimists. Bitches who make nail appointments and those who only do walk-ins. Team LC or Team Kristin. People who caption photos with song lyrics and those who would sooner eat a deep fried puppy. The pimps and the hoes. Bitches that like Michael Kors accessories and those who think it says “I’m settling for mediocrity”. Life is so much easier to navigate when you can put things in a clear container with a label.

At the end of the day there are really only two kinds of people: introverts and extroverts. In life, I tend to live in black and white so it has been a constant struggle to identify with such a strong shade of gray. What gray you may ask? Because I’m an extroverted introvert. It wasn’t until recently (last night) that I realized I am the ultimate union of both. Attention gives me fuel. Not in a daddy issues, lady of the pole way. I hate when people ASSUME that people who love attention are insecure. Some flowers just require more water to bloom.

Growing up, I participated in every fucking activity I could weasel or bribe myself into. Plays, lip-sync competitions, talent shows, pep rallies – you name it, I was there, front and fucking center. Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My first week of middle school I did a painful rendition of “Hey Mickey” during a lunchtime assembly. People threw their lunch at me (I will never look at Domino’s breadsticks the same again) but I held my final pose with my pom poms in a high V, grinning like a winner #nailedit. Sure, I had enough marinara sauce in my hair to feed the Giudice’s for the entirety of Tre’s sentencing, but I was working my shit and it would make for an amazing tale for my E! True Hollywood Story: ‘Bitches, They Are Just Like Us’.

So one could easily assume I am the most extroverted of extroverts. But much to many’s surprise, I am colossally private. I will discuss my digestive system to anyone with a pulse and ear canal but would rather shoot myself in the asshole than discuss anything emotional.

Ever since I was young, I have had this inner dialogue in my head where I am able to sort my inner struggles solo. WebMD may diagnose this as bipolar, but I would just call it having a great sense of self.

I have literally never cried in public. Not sad tears at least. It’s a real shame because crying is a good look for me. My eyes turn this really pretty shade of teal and the tears sitting on my cheekbones give my complexion an unreplicable dewy look. It’s fucking fantastic. Now, in the privacy of my own home or with selected group of bitches I will cry at a Sylvan commercial… dumb kids who need homework help really tug on my heartstrings.

I also have total social anxiety. My hypnosis therapist has assured me this is a control issue and I am uncomfortable in any situation I haven’t carefully crafted. I won’t even go to a restaurant without reading the menu and RAPING the place’s Yelp page.

One could over analyze this and try to associate my introversion to some childhood trauma but that just isn’t the case. To put it very simply, I have always enjoyed being alone. I am the most entertaining person I know. Does that make me an asshole or a complete psychopath? Probably both, but I will discuss that with myself over sushi later.

Sometimes I am an extrovert, sometimes I am an introvert. There is a huge likelihood that I am bipolar. There’s no question that I am neurotic. I wear sequins while home alone and can be found in bed by 9:00PM 87% of the week.

Spontaneity is a personal myth and I have about 8 fully choreographed dance numbers ready to go at any given second. I don’t cry in public but will let a homeless person cry on my shoulder as long as I am not wearing something that’s dry clean only. I own my shade of gray. And am proud of it. And to all my extroverted introverts HAYYYYYYY!

#RHONJ RECAP

These past couple episodes have been such a cock tease. I have lost at least 3 pounds anticipating Jacqueline’s return and waiting for this Santa ménage à trois shit to hit the fan. The twins, Dina and Melissa head to Boca Raton to hang out with Jewish geriatrics, cook for themselves and drink in excess. They call that a vacation? I call that Rosh Hashanah.

Back in the swampland, Tre and Gia go house hunting in the hopes of downsizing. I personally live for Teresa Giudice, circa 2008: table flipping, pre-owned house shkeeving, and all “onyx, marble and granite”.

Oh yay… Amber and Jim. I have been trying to mentally block them out for the past month and a half and I nearly spiral into a panic attack every time Amber comes onto my television screen with her vakakta contour and silver eyeliner. I realize that is probably in poor taste to say, given that she is going to get tested for cancer but…

Next we see Kathy and Jacqueline yet ALL I can think about is Ashlee Holmes. I have trouble sleeping every night knowing that she has more twitter followers then yours truly. I wonder what color her hair is, or whether she has gotten any new tattoos. Does she still wear her slumpy knit beanie and legging combo? Love and light bitch. But much to my dismay – no Ashlee cameos.

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In Boca, the bitches lay poolside while Melissa does her best white swan leaping around the pool and putting her bod #OnDisplay.

Back at the Lauritas, Jacqueline has only been back for 4 minutes and is already reading texts and crying per usual. Honey, I love you like a distant reality star, but why must you interject yourself in her situation? Ladies, don’t you think Tre has bigger fish to fry than to console YOU during HER time of chaos? Get it together and cry on the inside like a winner.

Back in Boca, Dina gives a Meryl Streep worthy performance faking excitement for Amber and Jim the troll’s arrival. I give the same performance every time someone asks me if I like their new Coach bag… “Yaaaah. That is great!”

I want Melissa to be drunk all the time.

Dina Manzo states that she watches porn for the décor… come again? Pun unintended. Does Dina have a liking for busted sofas, shit drywall and un-chic Lucite? Now I am sweating balls waiting for Dina to drop the Reno-Santa lovers tryst rumor.

And I am blue balled AGAIN… until next week bitches. Bye! Is bye a threat?