#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.

 

Things I Kurrently Kan’t With

Sorry I haven’t been actively blogging lately. I have been in a great mood lately and tend to only do my best work when I am angry or super menstrual. Lucky for you and my vagina, I am menstruating (#notpregnant) so I knew it was time to delight my bitches with some updates on my life.

Firstly, I have started wearing Uggs. I feel like I should probably go get a Wal-Mart credit card and go buy some fucking Warm Vanilla Lace body spray because isn’t that what people in Uggs do? This is a true story, I am quoted in my high school yearbook saying, “Uggs are UG” a decade ago (I won ‘Best Style’ #humblebrag and that tidbit was all I could come up with as a style philosophy). At the time, this was very controversial. I lost like 7 friends who swore by a Hollister jean skirt and Ugg boot combo after that was published. So as you can imagine, as I ventured to Starbucks this morning in leggings and my very vintage Uggs I felt like a super cunt traitor but also amazing.

Also on an entirely unrelated note… someone called me a pedophile on twitter. Just because I innocently called Hilary Duff’s 4 year old son hott. I would like to go on record and say that I stand by that statement. Seriously though have you seen him? Hottest 4 year old I have ever seen. If the one upside of sexism is that as a woman it’s less pedophilic to call kids hott, then please let me take advantage of that. Kaia Gerber is hott as fuck. She gets Cindy Crawford genealogy AND a lifetime of Casamigos Tequila. Romeo Beckham… please call me when you are 18. Or 17. Or 12.

Fuck “friends day”. The best part about making harsh statements against these fabricated Facebook holidays is that people get so offended and immediately start to defend themselves for taking part in the propaganda. If you are a regular cyber stalker like yours truly, you don’t need a sappy computer generated slideshow to reminisce. Firstly, you don’t even like 60% of the people pictured and secondly, no one gives a fuck. Publicly celebrating FrIeNdS dAy is like publicly celebrating your menstrual cycle after a pregnancy scare. Or like a Ramona Singer “New Beginnings” party. It’s self indulgent as fuck.

And lastly, on this day February 3, 2016, I initiate yet another Kardashian Kleanse. Because after 3 painful episodes of Kocktails with Khloe, 26 disgruntled reader emails attacking me for calling Caitlyn Jenner an asshole and 487 hours of watching Kylie Jenner’s snapchat and crying myself to sleep – I just kan’t do it anymore.

I miss Lace.

Beauty Tips I Learned From Watching The Real Housewives

When you think of pioneer women of beauty trends, lust worthy weaves and day drinking in faux lashes it’s hard not to immediately think of The Real Housewives. As a passionate and unapologetic aficionado of the franchise, I have learned many a lesson from these dynamic women.

Wigs R Us. One of the great things about being a woman is the opportunity to experiment with our look. Kim Zolciak taught us that wigs are for everyone and a hell of a lot easier than busting our ass on a blow dry. While Kim’s early synthetic wigs were less than appealing, she later redeemed herself with a wig collection to die for. The housewives show us that a weave can make all the difference, just make sure it’s tight. And remember, clip on bangs are NEVER a good idea.

Faux lashes are a girl’s best friend. Apparently being a Real Housewife requires wearing mink lashes to the gym. What kind of lash glue are they using? Carpenter’s glue? The ladies love their lashes and are rarely seen on camera without them. But how does one maintain this level of glam? The secret is sleeping on your back. Whether you have to tie all your limbs to the bed posts like you are having an exorcism or putting bricks on the sides of your body, sleep like a corpse and you will wake up with perfect lashes.

Contouring is the new rhinoplasty. Melissa Gorga vehemently insists that her slenderized nose was NOT the result of going under the knife but proper shading. To be clear, I don’t believe Mrs. Gorga for a fucking meatball. That bitch got one hell of a nose job. However, a proper contour and highlight truly can give you a post-surgery nose sans the procedure bills and hush money to your surgeon.

Tan with caution. While the housewives spend their days lunching alfresco and jet setting to exotic locales, most of us sit under fluorescent lighting quarantined to a cubicle. Housewives live for a good tan. Tanning beds (Danielle Staub), natural sun or the popular spray tan? So many options! If you can’t tone it, tan it. But think Yolanda Foster’s Malibu glow and not Amber Marchese Doritos orange.

A frosty lipstick CAN get you fired. Peggy Tanous, Alexis Bellino and Adrienne Maloof were all pioneer women of the daytime frosty lip. Subsequently, they were all fired. Some would say their termination was due to lack of personality; I blame the opalescent sheen of their lip color. I’ll just say it… it looks tacky. Unless you are dressing up as Romy or Michelle, just say no.

Less is more. Ugh. I know… So boring and wholesome #kimfields. After all the shading, gluing and glossing sometimes the best thing about being a REAL real housewife is the luxury of living au natural. Like Caroline Manzo once prolifically said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.” And hopefully that lipstick is not fucking frosted.

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.

SANGRIA STAKEOUT

On this weeks podcast with Kingsley I allude to my first documented Sangria Stakeout. Equipped only with binoculars, subpar disguises and a front row ticket to homeboys balcony we dedicated 2 hours to confirming his whereabouts. Here is the condensed footage from our excursion. Enjoy, and James please don’t file a restraining order… Hope your grandma is doing better.

Obitchuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace.

The Return of Thirsty Thursday

I would try and write a quippy intro for this but I am still at a loss of words, so instead I will use a plagiarized movie quote…

“It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself. It makes you wonder what else you are capable of…”

Do the right thing… @jackieschimmel

#DontJudgeChallenge

It is no secret that I am a highly irritable lassie. Almost anything, anyone or any place can be a trigger for me to lose my shit. I nearly had an ulcer after a friend of mine told me she was going to get her acrylic nail filled… UNLESS YOU ARE AN ESCORT OR WORK AT A DOMINOS PIZZA WHO STILL WEARS ACRYLIC NAILS? But seriously. And don’t even get me STARTED on the Toyota Yaris… I hate that little troll car.

I was particularly perturbed this morning when I heard of the #DontJudgeChallenge infecting basic bitches everywhere to take to their social media accounts and post pictures of themselves with fake acne, unibrows, disheveled hair and glasses to project societies perception of “ugly”, only to then wash it all off and reveal their “beautiful selves”. Shit like this makes me want to pull a Caitlyn Jenner and switch teams. I hate almost any social media challenges but especially ones that are primarily focused on appearance. The #NoMakeUp selfie of 2014 nearly sent me to Passages in Malibu.

To be clear, I am no stranger to a self indulgent Instagram post. Just last week I had a serious digestive breakthrough which I immediately celebrated with a bikini pic because I was fucking feeling myself. I am not ashamed of that. And if I have to nearly sell an ovary to buy a new pair of shoes, I sure as shit will post a picture of them because I am anti social and need to justify the purchase. It’s not great but it’s the truth and like Jill Zarin, “I own it”.

But less about me (@jackieschimmel) and back to the matter at hand… the #DontJudgeChallenge. First of all, there is literally nothing empowering about dressing your face in clown make-up to be “ugly” and then revealing that you are like SuPer pReTty with a killer contour and perfect lashes. Fucking gag me. What a statement! It’s super cute that you can wash all that shit off and go resume your shift at Abercrombie and Fitch. What about the bitch waiting for her Acutane prescription or a distant cousin to the Kardashians who hasn’t gotten her unibrow electrolysis treatment yet?

There are plenty of young girls who don’t have the luxury of wiping blemishes off, so these pathetic public attempts to liberate women are essentially just humble brags wrapped in faux-feminist packages.

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I beg of you from the bottom of my black hollow heart, lets put an end to these exteriorly focused social media challenges because they are moronic and make you look like a huge asshole. You don’t need a “cause” to show off your shit, you don’t need perfect skin and contacts to be beautiful and you don’t need a tapeworm to rock a string bikini although it did help me a lot. Looks fade, tits drop, wrinkles form and we all die looking like gray fucking raisins ANYWAYS so let’s kibosh this shit and all go read a book, sing “Kumbaya” and swap tampons.

Love always,

Jackie

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. 

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.

Deuces Bruce(s)

So in the past 72 hours I have watched the Bruce Jenner special with Diane Sawyer 6 times. In hopes of NOT losing my street cred I should probably withhold that I cried uncontrollably each and every time. When the ponytail came down, I cried. When the Olympic montage played, I cried. When I saw the Kardashian kids pre-contouring, I REALLY cried.

If you are Amish or a complete social reject and are unsure of what I am talking about, Bruce Jenner is literally becoming a woman.

I will admit, I was a skeptic. I wondered how he could father 653 kids, be a champion athlete and have such terrible selections of orthopedic footwear if he harbored the soul of a woman. I swore on my podcast that I would tweet a picture of my vagina if Bruce was actually becoming a female, that’s how confident I was in my disbelief. I am sorry but I will not be fulfilling that promise. I have a strict moral code that only allows me to take nude photos if I am being compensated… like a lady.

The truth is I don’t give a fuck about Kimye, Scott’s “drinking problems” #quitter, Kris and her chevron bathroom, Kylie and her fucking lips. Reasons for my skepticism are obvious. The overwhelming contradiction of shameless celebrity and personal voyeurism made me feel this was a ratings ploy. I immediately felt like a colossal asshole upon finishing the interview and hearing his truth and internal struggle.

I am not Mother Teresa and usually don’t comment on social or political issues, mostly because unless they directly benefit me I don’t pay attention. For the record, I still don’t know what Benghazi is – but it would make a killer kabob restaurant name. What Bruce Jenner did was so brave and (pardon my pun) BALLSY. Most importantly it will instigate change. I don’t know much about the transgender community, only that we should all learn more and they now have a new Queen B. Mazel tov Brucie, from one bitch to another!

What Would SJP Do?

I have had the worst morning. First, I was trying to kick start a “health plan” this morning and instead found myself eating take-out Tikka Masala which has not been kind to my food baby. Then, I settled into my sofa and while trolling the depths of my DVR accidentally deleted the fucking Britney Jean special that documented Britney preparing for her Vegas residency… I will never forgive myself for that. Does it get much worse than that? Yes, yes it does.

This is truly difficult to write. Anyone who knows me knows that I love three things unconditionally; my dog Leo, swapping clearance stickers on full price items and Sarah Jessica Parker. Even as a fabulously emaciated middle schooler, I was dreaming of a floor length fur and even tried that awkward Carrie Bradshaw waist belt look.

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My infatuation wasn’t just limited to the fictitious Carrie Bradshaw, I was/am heavily involved in everything SJP. When she thought Gap was cool, I thought Gap was cool. When she went to Paris and got slapped, I went to Paris and tried to get slapped. When she had a surrogate birth her twins, I volunteered my vagina to bear her children. SJP in many ways was the chic older sister I always wanted.

Sure our noses aren’t great but what we lack in facial symmetry we always made up for in thought provoking brunches and killer accessories. Duh!

Last year I went through a serious low point when I saw the debut of the SJP shoe collection, I was in a serious downward spiral and on the verge of a Lexapro prescription. This year I was certain we would move towards greener pastures and advanced heel heights. I decided to dedicate last night to channel my inner SJP and check out the new collection. To get in the spirit I had an honorary cosmopolitan (not my vibe), a brief affair with my buildings maintenance man and left a break-up post it on his tool case. I stole some co-ed twins from a nearby elementary school and then called my bff Andy Cohen to catch up and discuss which designer to collab with for my Met ball look since my usual go-tos are both dead… RIP.

Once I was feeling like the best celebrity inspired version of myself, I sat down with my heart aflutter and googled “SJP shoe collection 2015”. The instant I pressed enter I knew it was a mistake… Here is the very first image I clicked on.

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I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or hurl my body off my balcony. HEART CUT OUTS? ARE THOSE MULES? PATENT LEATHER? These shoes are perfect for your quirky 76 year old Aunt who lives in the inland empire and loves to dress up for holidays. Think light up snowflake earrings on Christmas, cornucopia sweaters on Thanksgiving and THESE FUCKING MULES ON VALENTINES DAYS. Festive and fashion forward! GAG ME.

Now after further research, the rest of the collection is MUCH BETTER and way less geriatric than prior collections. But honestly, Carrie wouldn’t be caught DEAD in that shoe. Fuck, even Suri Cruise wouldn’t rock that fucking mule to her tri-weekly therapy appointment. I still love you SJP and hope one day we will have a good laugh about this over a charcuterie plate and drinks al fresco.

IT’S HERE.

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

DOWNLOAD ON ITUNES https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/the-bitch-bible/id966029848 

OR LISTEN ON SOUNDCLOUD 

10 Signs You’re Dating a Bunny Boiler

  1. Excess Flattery. Bitches love a compliment. Psychos will have their nose so far up your ass you are blinded by your own inflated ego. You are the smartest, most beautiful, funny, charming, domestic, business savvy bitch he has EVER met. And while that might all be true – the sentiment is less than sincere adoration.
  2. What you love, he loves. Amazingly, your new bunny boiling boo is so simpatico with you! You love reality television? So does he! You collect Spice Girl memorabilia? So does he! You want 17 kids and a three-legged dog with one testicle? SO DOES HE. This is the psycho’s way of making you believe you are perfect for each other.
  3. Welcome to the Pity Party. You will hear it all, his ex is crazy, his father abandoned him, he was bullied in high school. Waaah waaah, cry me a fucking river. A psycho will try to appeal to your emotions by victimizing himself and confiding in you. This is a ploy to garner empathy from you. If stories he shares with you run parallel to any plotline on Vanderpump Rules – RUN bitch, run.
  4. Medical Mayhem. Since the crazy bastard loves a good pity party, medical trauma is inevitable. A simple mole is probably skin cancer, a hangover is most definitely a brain tumor and he most likely has some hereditary ailment just WAITING to rear its undiagnosed head. Make sure those life-saving medications aren’t candy coated.
  5. Psycho in the streets, Fabio in the sheets. It is standard for a bunny boiler to go out of his way to keep his prey pleased. This is just another way of him trying to get you hooked or a reason to put up with his crazy.
  6. Unexpected outbursts. If you are shopping for new silverware at Bed, Bath and Beyond and your possibly unstable lover randomly announces, “he collects knifes” he is either a closet sushi chef or has accidentally exposed himself. Psychos can only save face for so long before they show cracks in the mask.
  7. The Silent Treatment. After they get you hooked and the idealization love bomb phase concludes, a psychopath will begin to devalue you. This is an attempt to pull the rug out from beneath you sparking insecurity. You then begin to doubt yourself and wonder why he is no longer worshipping you, making you instantly more hooked.
  8. Jealousy. This is their way of manipulating and catapulting you into a jealous frenzy. They may introduce you to an abnormally attractive co-worker, take a lunch with his ex or stock up on Victoria’s Secret catalogs. This is to make you both feel unworthy of his attention and lustful for the initial worship you once had.
  9. The Chuck. He has found a new unsuspecting victim or he needs to flee the country and your psychopath has already taken you on his sick and emotionally taxing rollercoaster. If he doesn’t end up turning you into chop suey, this is when you and your new Lexapro prescription are chucked to the wayside.
  10. Hovering. Just because he is done with you doesn’t mean his ego is ready to relinquish your admiration. Even if he has moved on, he will still make sure you are missing him. Expect an awkward email or random invitations to happy hour… hopefully in a well-lit and public venue.