Fear And Loathing Of Snapchat

October 28, 2016.Reading time 5 minutes.

You may want to throw shit at your computer screen after you read the next sentence, but … I hate Snapchat. Like a lot. I really do.

Is the app downloaded onto my phone? Yes. Only because I want to “stay in the know” and not become an ancient tech dinosaur that says things like, “how do I subscribe to the interbweb?” But do I use the app? No. Well … unless I’m incredibly intoxicated. Or need that insanely amazing filter to make me look not so gargoyle-ish (you know which one … when even if you have 105 degree fever it still manages to make you look fantastic).

The reason I loathe Snapchat is because I feel like it is turning everyone into a straight up narcissist in the worst way possible.

A perfect example was when I was at a bar recently. Instead of drunk girls dancing, it was drunk girls Snapping. Groups of girls huddled close together, one holding her phone all the way out in the air, as they lip synced to that dumb ass song, “you ain’t gotta go to werk, werk, werk, werk, werk, werk, werk,” flipping their hair and seductively sipping their vodka sodas.

It was like:

Step 1. Take Snap video.

Step 2. Review it thoroughly.

Step 3. Re-do video because one girl doesn’t like it.

Step 4. Review video.

Step 5. Post video.

Step 6. Repeat steps 1-5.

There were some just solo Snapping, duck facing from different angles and bobbing her head seductively to the song, as her friends functioned around her.

What in the living eff? Am I old or does this shit actually bring the boys to the yard now?

Like I get it, you’re feeling yourself, you like your outfit … you want the world to see how good you look. Cool. Girl, do ya thang. But to spend a majority of the night on your phone in social media land? Yawn.

There’s life happening while you’re busy face swapping (note to self: put that quote on decorative pillow). There are cute boys to be oogled. Their are hot messes to make fun of. Their are interesting conversations to be had with people.

Correct, celebrities like Kim Kardashian spend like 98.9% of their day taking selfies and Snapchatting dumb shit in that irritating flower crown. Doing absolutely nothing but showing off their clev and being all, “guys I’m bored :::duck face … oops there’s my clev again:::

Kylie Jenner’s Snapchat makes me want to bang my head against the wall. It’s basically her just looking all weird and serious as she kind of lip syncs to some rap song. It makes me THOROUGHLY uncomfortable. Like why?

Why? Because I believe they are getting paid to do this. If someone said to me, “hey Kate, I’m going to throw you a thou to take Snapchat videos of you rocking my new lip color,” I would be like SOLD. I will duck face til the fucking cows come home, bro.

But most of us, upon contrary belief, are not Kardashians. And we aren’t getting paid to drink at a bar. And if you are, I hate you … a lot. Therefore if you aren’t being paid, maybe put your phones down and stop Snapping whilst out in public. Make eye contact with people. Keep your phone in your purse for a new minutes … GASP (I know, I know, I’m totally addicted to my phone, too, it would be next to impossible, but worth a shot?) Drunk wine night in with the gals? Well Snap your faces off, kids.

I know I sound like a dusty old rag of a woman who is all waving her cane and yelling sentence fragments about technology, but after seeing the Snap clones all transformed into giraffe’s or pumpkins or whatever the hot filter of the day is, I had about enough.

INSTAGRAM FORVER!

Shame Me: I Bought A Kylie Lip Kit

October 21, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

I’m writing this post with my head down, covered in shame and disgust. I want ALL of you to know this. I hate myself just a little bit right now.

:::sigh::: I purchased a Kylie Lip Kit :::shakes head::: Don’t look at me.

Why? Well, I’ll be honest with you. I was drinking too much wine with my good friend, tried hers, and loved the color. I also tried to steal it (and failed). With all the hype, I couldn’t help but be curious.

I was under the assumption these lip kits were so exclusive still. Like no one could get their paws on them, hence why I almost had a heart attack when I heard she had one (or maybe it was the alcohol… hmm). Like wasn’t her website crashing every other day due to demand a minute go? Or am I living in March of 2015?

Turns out they aren’t exclusive anymore. Any slob can go onto her dumb website and buy any of the “normal” colors. If you want blue lips, though, you’re shit out of luck, ya freaks.

So I pulled the trigger and got the KOKO K gloss. Sigh. I mean I can’t honestly deal with my life decisions.

When it arrived at my house, my first reaction was, “what the fuck is this packaging?” It was a crappy, non-descript black box. No logo, no branding. I mean anything could have been in this damn box. WHAT’S IN THE BOX?! For $17 per gloss, perhaps you could swing for more jazzy packaging, Kyles. No?

I opened the stupid box and was greeted with a large and in charge “KYLIE.” But I’ll give her this much, her branding is on point. So kodos to the rad designer who created her logo, because God knows it wasn’t Kylie Jenner.

Then I gracefully lifted up the styrofoam, unenthused, only to find a postcard of a Kylie Jenner mugshot? In a Louis Vuitton head wrap and taas out and about? And her seductively holding a name plate that said “KINGKYLIE”? Will someone PLEASE tell me what any of this has to do with lip gloss? Please.

I was so confused, and horrified, and couldn’t help but say to myself, “why in the blazing fuck did I waste over $20 on this dumb shit?”

And then I turned the postcard over. There I found a note that looked like it was written by a child who was trying to work on her penmanship. Written, of course, by Ms. Kylie Jenner. I couldn’t help but wonder how many morons actually thought she had handwritten this note specially for them.

Also her punctuation on the note was 50 shades of fucked, so immediately I wanted to set fire to it. Kylie, you missed a period, dammit! “Let” should be initial CAP. AND there really isn’t a need for an ellipsis there. ARGH. Instead, I just threw it on the ground and kept going. I wanted my gloss, dammit.

When I got to the gloss, and applied it to my lips, it was the most anti-climactic moment of life. It was just lip gloss. That’s all it was. My mind wasn’t blown. It never dried like it claimed to (my lips looked all juicy … VOM). And it didn’t stay on extra long. The minute my lips touched my wine glass it was coming off.

And, upon contrary belief, one application did not turn me into a Kardashian. Shucks.

Color-wise it was pretty and looked nice on me, that’s for sure. And I mean, it didn’t smell weird? I really don’t know what else to say about it.

All I know is I’m pretty sure you can find a better product, for a better price, and not pay over $8 in shipping. In fact I just got a great matte lip gloss from Ulta for $9. Check it. I even think they do a buy one, get one dealio. Aye, aye, aye, aye.

The joke is on me, really. I just gave the Kardashian klan some of my hard-earned money, only to buy a lip gloss that I’m actually embarrassed to put on in public. Seriously. I mine as well be doing secret lines of coke on the train, but no, just applying my Kylie Lip Kit, don’t mind me!

I can honestly say in this instance, curiosity DID almost kill the Kate.

Why I’m Voting For Hillary Clinton

October 19, 2016.Reading time 8 minutes.

Preface: The Clinton campaign did not sponsor this post. This is my opinion and mine alone. You are entitled to yours, so before you start throwing pitch forks at me, remember I said that.

A lot of people have been asking me why I’ve been so “politically charged” on social media lately. At first I was offended, but then realized, yep 96.7% of my social media content either has to do with cats or people who piss me off on my commute to and from work. Really no contesting that.

But yes, I have been rather “politically charged” lately. I mean how could you not be, especially if you have a vagina. And if you’re not, in the wonderful words of Kate McKinnon as Hillary Clinton, “bish, ya cray!”

I am so proud to be sitting here as a woman in 2016 with rights, and a career, and a platform like this blog to write whatever the fuck I want without fear of getting burned at the stake.

Could you imagine if this was the 1950s?! 29. Single. Childless. With a career?! I would have been considered the lonely spinster lady who should probably be given lithium and committed. “Don’t go near Old Lady Kate’s house, kids, I hear she has 40 cats and builds forts out of crackers,” they would say about my 29-year-old single ass.

Now it’s 2016 and we have a woman running for one of the most important jobs in ze world (every time I say “in the world” I have to talk like Celine Dion, sorry). But I don’t want you to think I’m voting for her just because of her anatomy or because “it’s time.”

There are so many reasons why I’m voting for her, and yes, some have to do with the fact that I believe as women, we can do anything men can do. And that it is a COMPLETE abomination that this is such a big deal that a “poor lil lady” is running for such a big job. GASP.

But most importantly, I’m voting for her because she is educated, smart, and has the experience to run this country. Bottom line.

I have zero interest in being her friend (although if she’s interested in grabbing some tea or cocktails and chatting, I’m always available, Hillary, I love you. Hi.). I don’t want to read her emails. And I don’t want to see her health records, because quite frankly, we could all drop dead at any minute, so it doesn’t fucking matter.

So you can understand how angry I get when people say things like, “she’s a bitch.” “I can’t relate to her.” “She’s cold.” “She’s shady.” Okay, we aren’t electing our next best friend, here. This isn’t enter to become Paris Hilton’s next BFF (Jesus Christ, remember that nightmare?).

I don’t want to relate to her. Because that would mean she was on my level and then the whole country would go up in a flame of Chardonnay, and my cat Ellsworth would be on the American flag. Be above me, Hillary, PLEASE. I beg of you. You’re sooooo much smarter than everyone. Flaunt that shit.

She’s shady. Who the fuck isn’t?! Haven’t you ever blown off a friend and been all, “yeah, I’m sick, :::cough, cough:::” and done something else more fun sans friend? I’m TOTALLY guilty of that. Yeah, dude, that’s called being a shade ball. We’ve all had our moments. So don’t throw stones, ya dig?

And politicians are notoriously shady. It’s like in the job description to have confidential convos in dark alleyways in DC. And quite frankly I think House of Cards is playing mind games with us. Even the perfect and lovely Obama family, who I adore. I can’t help but look at them side-eyed and be all, “Michelle and Barack, whatcho REALLY doin’ over there?”

And her husband. Former President Bill Clinton. I’m going to stop you right there. He was a straight up dog. That is correct. But guess what? Come real close because I want you to hear this loud and clear. HE’S NOT RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. So would his gaggle of skanks from the 90’s please see themselves out?

GOD. :::shakes off rage:::

Nothing makes me more enraged then a misogynistic, privileged, poor excuse for a man, and that doesn’t exclude Donald Trump. I have zero respect for anyone who supports or is willing to vote for a man who…

encourages his followers to scream things like, “kill that cunt!” and “revoke the 19th amendment!” at his rallies.

shames women and calls them liars for sharing that they were sexually assaulted, making it that much harder for them to tell their story and move on from their pain, no matter whom they were assaulted by.

gropes women because he can. Wait, wait, no I’m sorry, I think the exact words were, “grabs them by the pussy.” I don’t even think that is possible. I’m pretty sure you cannot grab at a vagina like you can grab at a pair of balls, Mr. Trump. The anatomy just doesn’t work like that. I believe you were thinking of taas. Yeah. Taas. Kelly Ann Conway, please be sure to put on your to-do list, “explain to Mr. Trump the difference between a vagina and taas.” Kay, thanks.

and comments on the shape, size, and style of a woman in the cruelest of ways. Because as much as he’s tried, no one is willing to help him create the “Ivanka Cookie Cutter Factory” where all women in ze world moving forward will look like his weirdly perfect daughter.

:::Takes a big ol’ deep breath:::

So these are a few reasons why I’m for Hillary Clinton, and why I’m so politically charged right now, for those of you who think it is so out of character for me (which it is, I’m not going to “front” as the kids say).

I wish I could say vote for whomever you want, I really wish I could. But at this stage in the game, if you’re voting for Donald Trump, I’m straight up judging you, and I don’t care who knows it.

I’M WITH HER. Go Hillary, GO!

Brunch, A Night Club, & the Faux-dashians

October 17, 2016.Reading time 8 minutes.

I remember when I had a fake ID, going to “da club” was something out of Sex and the City. I thought everything was so chic. I would sit on the velvet couches, sipping my cosmopolitan whilst rocking my boot cut jeans and satin “going out top,” thinking life really couldn’t get much more glamorous than this.

It’s been 9 years to the date since I’ve retired my fake ID. And rarely does my ass ever step foot into a club because, well…

I hate people
I really can’t stand trying to have a conversation over blaring heinous techno (Jesus do I sound dusty and decrepit)
I loathe douchey dudes who think an Armani Exchange button down gives them the right to grind up all on me. HARD pass.

But when someone says to you, “hey, want to go to a brunch nightclub,” you nod your head yes, because why wouldn’t you? I feel the need to also express that I was highly intoxicated when I agreed to these plans because I loathe brunch, and see above my thoughts on nightclubs at age 29. But hey, I was visiting one of my closest friends and we were heading into New York City… when in Rome.

Brunch in Philly, or “Sunday Funday” (by the way, that term makes me want to kick people) from what I understand, is super casual and ends at a normal hour. Again I don’t partake because I fucking hate having to choose between a burger or pancakes. And also I don’t need an excuse to drink during the day, okay?

Brunch in NYC is, well, a beast. Little did I know I had to batten down the hatches. I walked up to this “brunch nightclub,” also known as Il Bastardo, at 4 p.m. to a bunch of sloppily drunk contoured girls in teeny tiny outfits, chain smoking, crying, and trying to balance on their 4 inch heels and failing miserably. Holy fuck balls … where was I?!

I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and Kardashian clones stumbling around like drunk slobs carrying bottles of champagne, BOTTLES, with straws hanging out of them. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, kids. And people were getting carried out of this place. At 4 p.m. On a Sunday.

After screaming to the hostess five hundred times over the DJ announcing, “WHERE MANHATTAN AT?!?!” “Party for 2 under KATE … KATE! K-A-T-E!” We were seated directly in front of the dance floor, which was glorious, because we had front row seats to this shit show. But mama needed alcohol. It was the only way I was going to survive this insanity.

Immediately two bottles of champagne arrived with no straws and no cups. I swear the waiter looked at me like I had five heads when I asked for a glass to drink my champagne out of. Oh okay … are cups not cool in NYC? I’m confused.

We ordered food, which felt super out of place, but I noshed on my truffle fries as the faux-dashians selfied themselves to death around me, because … well fries. I know my priorities even when I’m in the twilight zone.

Once I had sweet alcohol flowing through my veins, I began to dance a little in my seat like a grandma and people watch. Immediately I noticed these absolutely STUNNING women, each with a bottle of Moet Chandon in front of them immersed in their social media world. Like dressed to the nines, each one looking effortlessly stunning than the next.

I resisted the strong urge to ask them what the hell they did for a living besides sit at brunch and take Snapchat videos of themselves lip syncing seductively to the music and flipping their hair (yes, that happened … like they didn’t talk to one another, that is ALL they did).

Everyone looked like they were “someone,” but a large part of me knew they were not, which made it all feel really sad. For example, the lady in the expensive-looking flowing skirt who I witnessed lift her leg up onto the bar and start to twerk … she wasn’t someone. But my god was trying.

I happened to be on my way to the ladies room when she did this and had the unfortunate timing of seeing a good majority of her vagina. And I’m super sad to report that wasn’t the only unintentional vagina I saw that day. Sigh.

Like I said, they were all Kardashian clones. Tight ass dresses with long flowing trenches over them. Crop tops with old school Tommy Hilfiger jean jackets over them paired with Adidas shell toes. Long ass t-shirts paired with thigh high boots and Kourtney Kardashian long locks. And it didn’t matter if you were 100 pounds of 500 pounds, you were wearing a crop top. I suppose it is a requirement in the state of NY.

Me? Well, I wore black ripped skinnies, a lace top with a hint of witch, and a cool set of heels. To which the bouncer at this nightmare told me I looked, “comfortable.” COMFORTABLE. That’s when I almost removed my non-existant hoops, said, “this is considered stylish in Philly, sir!” like a moron, and had to leave.

I’ve never felt more uncool slash uncomfortable in my life. At one point I found myself painting dark matte lipstick on myself and contemplating taking off my camisole underneath my lace top to expose my lame bra and compete with these bitches. I didn’t because I woke up and realized, “self, you don’t live here, this isn’t you, and oh yeah, this doesn’t matter.”

I still to this day can’t help but wonder, do these people work? Because if I got as rip roaring drunk as these people did on a Sunday before I had to work, Jesus Christ I would be dead. There would be no reviving my ass. I was dead for days after just trying to survive the whole ordeal.

So there you have it. If your friend ever tries to talk you into going to a “brunch nightclub” when you’re half in the bag, run as far away as humanly possible. Give me my couch, sweats, Netflix, takeout, and a bottle of champagne, with a fucking glass to drink it out of.

The Road To 30

October 3, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. And me. I was a clueless 24-year-old when I gave birth to it, and here I am, a clueless almost 30-year-old. Now what? Where are we going? Who am I?

And then, as I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely while wrestling sheets onto my bed, I realized something: have I always gotten so winded whilst putting sheets on my bed? When I was done I laid on my floor exhausted, and almost sore? Wishing a random soul would run into my room and pour an ice cold bucket of water over my head. Yep. From putting damn sheets on my bed.

Is this 30?

My last year in my 20s has been a rocky one for sure. I was diagnosed with rosacea. I’m pretty sure I have a gluten intolerance and had to cut it out of my diet when all I want to do is make sweet sweet love to a crunchy baguette (wait … scratch that, what I meant is I want to devour it with a whole thing of Brie, ya pervs). Things ended pretty badly with a guy I really cared about for a long time, leaving me utterly heart broken. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, his lovely new girlfriend (whom I don’t know), started harassing me for no legitimate reason for a majority of the summer.

It’s all been shit. But Jesus does it feel good to write about it and share it with you.

While I’m super excited to turn 30 (no sarcasm, I truly fucking hated my 20s, and couldn’t be more pleased a new decade of life is on the horizon), I just can feel it in my bones that times are a-changin’.

My friends are buying houses, talking more about their credit scores over dinner than dumb ass shit we used to chat about. They are saying things like, “yeah, we’ll probably start trying in the spring…” Wait. Weren’t we just talking about how we DON’T want to get pregnant slash ways to avoid it? I don’t know why, but I freak out when I hear people talking about procreating. It’s so … final. So, waiter, a bottle of wine for this gal and this gal only please.

And me? Well, at the moment I’m contemplating whether or not to splurge and buy that suede purse from Zara that I’ve been oogling. And, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck about my credit score or when/if I will ever procreate so suck on that, AYE AYE AYE (no I’m totally kidding, you guys, credit scores are important, everyone, just not enough to gab about it with your gal friends … but I was serious about the procreation part).

Odd lady out? Probably. While yes, being the black sheep sometimes makes me want to cry, after wrestling with my bed linens, I realized the beauty of it all. I could sit here and feel like the Hunchback shunned to her bell tower, single and not fitting in with my friends who are all making life their bitch as they troll Credit Karma or some shit, or I could share the splendor and disfunction of my path to 30 with you all. Hmm I’ll choose the later for $500, Alex.

Don’t get it twisted, fashion and style and makeup and all that shit are still my life source. It will just be intermixed with interesting and funny (or sad … whatever way you want to slice it, your call) anecdotes from my single life on the brink of 30.

Now look, this is my path, and my path only. I can already hear my friends picking up their phones and texting me, “was that me you were writing about? Blah blah blah, you hate me, why do you think I’m so lame … you bitch, blah.”

Look, I probably will be writing about you. Get over it. You know I love you, come on, you do. Stop being silly. We’re all on different paths and unfortunately since you’re friends with me, you get involved in mine henceforth leaving me no choice then to write about your ass. I apologize in advance and know I never hate any of you (you know who you are, if you don’t then I probably hate you).

Okay, so let’s do the damn thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have to start getting ready for my bedtime of 9 p.m., place my heating pad on my stiff neck, and pray to the Gods of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey.

I’m BACK.

September 7, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

So I bet all five of you reading this have been frantically clicking on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra every day being all, “why hasn’t there been a post in almost a month!” “Did she quit?!” “Does life no longer suck in a strapless bra and I didn’t get the memo?!”

No. No no no. I didn’t quit nor will I ever (this thing will be a relic for my great great great grandchildren to make fun of). Life will forever and always suck in a strapless bra … don’t get it twisted.

And why haven’t I posted in almost a month? Welp, to be completely honest, writer’s block is a real thing, and it blows. Badly. Really badly. Maybe almost equally to a strapless bra. And you know what? Mama needed a break. And that’s okay. So to all five of you freaks, calm the fuck down. I’m here for all your snarky commentary about life and style forever and always.

Now let’s get down to brass tax. Because everyone and their mother has been posting pics of their kids going “back to school” (no idea why I felt the need to put that in quotes), it made me think of how every first week back they made you write a, “what did you do over summer break” essay. Which made me reflect upon the good ol’ summer of 2016.

I would probably title my essay, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Yes. Completely and utterly cliche, but devastatingly accurate. I laughed a lot. I cried a lot. I had some amazing experiences that will leave a mark on me forever, aaaaand some I have bolt locked away in a dust-covered box in the back of my mind that says, “do not touch under any circumstances, bitch.” But hey, as is life.

So I apologize for my absence. Truly. This blog is my life and my happiness, and I’m refreshed and ready to get weird. So let’s check out some fun lessons I learned over this past summer, shall we?

1. Family and friends are super important and give you life (I mean, duh). Keep your circle tight, keep it small, keep it honest. Be thankful for them and tell them how much you care on the reg. Do it.

2. Wine in a can is a thing and it’s glorious and my new favorite way to drink alcohol. Don’t ask questions, just try it. And, oh yeah, you’re welcome.

3. Be kind. To everyone you come across, because at the end of the day you have no idea what they are going through.

4. That as women we can do anything we fucking put our minds to (shout out to Hillary Clinton). I had the pleasure of attending the DNC the night she accepted the nomination, and I cried, and laughed, and hugged strangers. And it was amazing. It was like the first time in history I didn’t loathe being around lots of people.

5. Speaking of amazing women, this quote by Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.”

6. How important it is to embrace your flaws and own them AND be able to laugh at them. For example, I now have no issue posting things on Facebook like, “I’ve been wearing my skirt backwards all day, HAPPY MONDAY!”

7. That I actually like to cook and have been using it as a creative outlet lately. If you told me I would be doing this five years ago I would have said, “bitch, please” and flipped my hair like an asshole. Oh how things change.

8. SPANX underneath a dress in the summer equals death. If you don’t like my giggly bits, I don’t like you.

9. Your gut is almost always right. And isn’t afraid to do the “I told you so” dance. You’re going to not want to listen to it. You’re going to want to tell it to shut the fuck up. But it’s going to tell you stuff you don’t want to hear, but need to hear and embrace. Listen to it, for the love.

10. That people will try to rip you apart. Kick you while you’re down and then sprinkle salt in the wound just for the hell of it, no matter what kind of person you are. While we can’t change those people, it is all about rising above it all, and surrounding yourself with the positive ones. The ones that make you pee your pants laughing. Get your drunk for no reason and create epic days/nights with. Who will do literally anything for you. I’m so thankful for those people otherwise I would most likely be in a gutter somewhere singing to stray cats.

Rising Above The Mean

August 9, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

I think I loathe the word “bullying” due to the Real Housewives franchise. “Lisa VanderPump called me a bitch behind my back to all the other girls and now everyone hates me. Why am I being bullied :::chugs bottle of Rose, vomits into Celine purse:::?!?!”

I thought the term “bullying” was left next to the monkey bars when we graduated from school. Never in my adult existence did I think people in their 20’s, 30’s, or 40’s would be walking around getting verbally victimized by awful people trying to make themselves feel better by pulling others down. But alas, here we are.

But I’m not here to tell you to not “bully” others, because as grown adults, if you have to be told to not be shitty to your fellow human, well then, Google a good psychiatrist, I’m sure they can work wonders on you.

As cliche as it is, this is one of my all-time favorite quotes that I think about regularly: “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” It’s not something I would ever put on a mug and drink tea out of, but it just stays with me.

Simply because I have suffered from anxiety since I was little. When the insane worries are clawing at you from the inside out and there is nothing you can do to make it stop. When you want to just enjoy yourself, but the anxiety keeps pulling you back down. But you have to sit there, smile, and keep going … because as adults, what other options do we have?

All people see are the smiles, jokes, and how well I’m put together. What people don’t see is when sometimes my heart constantly races and all I want to do is cry. I know those feelings all too well, therefore I can’t help but be sympathetic to others that could potentially be feeling the same way. Because I know one mean comment, or unjustifiable jab could cause me to spiral. And quite frankly, that’s just not an option for me. Because God dammit, I’m strong :::punches fist in air awkwardly::::.

It’s so easy to spread rumors, call people fat, ugly, stupid, a whore. But that person you insulted for no justifiable reason could be dealing with body image issues, or may have low self esteem. For example I sometimes slash always think I’m fat/overweight (I mean who doesn’t have those moments), so I don’t need the freakin’ peanut gallery sharing their thoughts on the topic, thanks.

That person you are berating with mean comments could be hanging on by a thread. You just never know.

I know I’m coming off like a saint who is holier than thou and who has never done a bad thing in her life. Wrong. Completely wrong. I hate most people (kidding, kind of, sort of …) and I adore talking shit. Especially when I’m mad. Hi, I’m human. But when I do, I try to keep it to myself because I don’t want to be the reason that person has a shitty day, cries themselves to sleep, or does something unimaginable to themselves.

Struggles don’t end when you become an adult, and apparently either does being ruthlessly mean for no reason. I’m sure I’ll be dealing with mean girls even when I’m in an old folks home doing synchronized swimming (#lifegoals).

The only way to respond is through kindness. Throw that anger and sadness you have from the mean person into something positive, like sending a compliment to your fellow lady. I adore supporting other women. I really do. And in a selfish way, giving compliments to others makes me feel amazing. So I encourage all of you to compliment someone. Do it. It’s like Xanax in word form, trust.

So to all five of you out there reading this who have been personally victimized by some woman/man with nothing better to do with his/her time then to bring you down, I feel you. I’ve been there. But keep your head up. We’re adults. Acts that are traditionally committed in a playground setting have no room in my life, nor in yours. Remember that.

And next time you want to take an unjustifiable or justifiable jab at someone for the hell of it, say it with me now, “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

Be kind, for the love of fuck.

Ps. I dedicate this post to Amy Poehler and Tina Fey because they are my idols and are everything I want to be as a woman.

Own Your Shit

July 19, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

If you’re as worried as I am that it is the end of times, don’t worry, we can lay in the fetal position and hold each other whilst eating soft pretzels and chugging wine.

I feel like every single morning my alarm goes off, I learn something new and awful that happened while I was sleeping. From horrifying terror attacks, to people just being stupidly mean to one another, to the more meaningless and ridiculous acts of Kim Kardashian posting footage of Taylor Swift approving “I made that bitch famous.” It’s always something.

Everything just feels … off right now, right? All we can do is try to make this world a somewhat decent place to coexist. And I believe that starts with a little thing known as owning your shit. Yeah, I said it. I don’t care if you’ve sold 14 bazillion records, or are Sally Sunshine from Mississippi who eats rainbows and sparkles for dinner. Say it with me now … own your shit.

Oh you pretended like you were so offended by being called a “bitch” in a song, and then footage came out showing you originally approved it? Own it. A simple statement like, “yeah I’m an ass, I approved it. But to be honest, when it came out I changed my mind because you know what? It isn’t okay to be called a bitch. Sorry, guys,” would have stopped a lot of useless, dumbass drama. Here’s a little life secret I’ll share between me and you … ready? It’s totally okay to laugh at yourself. I do it daily. Shh don’t tell anyone.

So you ate your co-workers sandwich and then denied it? Stop being a moron. “I ate your sandwich, coworker, because I was starving and thought it was mine even though I knew deep down it wasn’t. I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow to make it up to you.” Now people won’t stand around the water cooler talking about what a psychopath you are.

My favorite and yours, you plagiarized a speech from the first lady and then denied it. There is no getting around plagiarism kids, because you can’t deny words. Look, see below? Can’t deny that shit. But alas … the sky is green, not blue in the wonderful world of the Trumps.

Screen Shot 2016-07-19 at 4.50.09 PM — Photo credit: CNN.com

Plagiarism scares the shit out of me. Since I was old enough to write a paper I was told if I stole material from another human, I would basically become the scum of the Earth with no future, and it would follow me around for the rest of my life (thanks, public school).

Here’s what you do: Fire your entire team. Like every single person who touched the speech, looked at the speech, wrote the speech, breathed near the speech, was in the same room as the speech. Fuck it, fire the people who made the paper the speech was written on. Fire. Them. They are all idiots.

THEN … apologize. Publicly. Especially to Michelle Obama, because you stole from her. Jewelry, words, souls, stealing is stealing. Suck it up, say you made a huge ridiculous mistake, and deal with the consequences. People will have more respect for you.

I realize owning your shit seems easier than it looks. The embarrassment, remorse, and being put in the spotlight as the biggest ass to ever walk this Earth isn’t fun, I get it. But by saying you screwed up and apologizing, you can then shut the story down and start taking control of it.

Look, I’m not perfect. I’m far from it, in fact. Like REALLY far from it. But when I mess up in my professional life, I own up to it. Because I’ve learned that all mistakes I’ve made have just forced me to become better at what I do. Instead of pointing fingers and throwing other innocent people under the bus, embrace that huge, ugly mistake, learn a lesson from it, and move on with your life. Same goes with my personal life.

The world is a strange place right now, that’s an undeniable fact. So let’s stop acting like 5-year-olds, pulling one another’s hair and then screaming “SHE DID IT” on the playground. We’re adults, for the love of God. And not to sound like a rabid real housewife who is about to flip the God damn kitchen table but, OWN YOUR SHIT!

Republicans, democrats, Taylor Swift … I’m looking at all of you specifically.

LSIASB Turns 5, Spouts Words Of Blogging Wisdom

July 14, 2016.Reading time 6 minutes.

Today is a lot like it was five years ago. I’m sitting in front of my computer not knowing what the hell to say to you.

The difference is, today is the fifth anniversary of Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra and I’m in total awe and kind of speechless. And five years ago today, I was sitting on my twin bed, in my childhood home, pulling my hair out trying to compose the “perfect first post,” and not having the balls to hit “Publish.”

Look, I could sit here and gush about how proud I am of what Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra has turned into (but seriously I’m stupidly beaming from ear-to-ear proud), and ugly crying into my cocktail about how beyond supportive and amazing and encouraging my friends, family, co-workers past and present, fellow bloggers, and weird Internet folk have been over the past five years (seriously … you guys make me feel like it’s okay to be me … get me drunk and I’ll go into more detail).

But instead I want to share with you some important lessons I’ve learned over the past five years of nurturing this blog.

Before I do, I gotta say a sincere thank you. To anyone who has taken five minutes out of their day to read my words, or share a post, comment, or even feel the need to tell me I’m the worst human on the planet (it happened), I appreciate all of it, more than words can say.

Okay five pieces of wisdom … let’s do this.

1. Never stop. I’ve wanted to stop. In fact recently. You’re going to lose your way. You’re going to think no one cares, and they may or may not. You’re even going to lose inspiration. But never stop. If you stop, someone else is just going to take your place. Don’t be that kind of dumbass.

2. Negative comments are awesome and hilarious. Someone once told me you’ll know you’ve left an impression when someone tells you to “fuck off.” Welp, that happened to me. Except it was more like, “go to the gym you lazy fuck,” on a post I wrote about hating my jiggly bits. It still makes me laugh. People are entitled to their opinions, and not everyone is going to like you. Learn it. Live it. Laugh at it. And move the fuck on.

3. Not everyone in your life is going to read your shit, and that’s okay. In fact I can almost guarantee no one in my family is reading this right now. And after five years, I’m kind of okay with it since my mom detests my cursing and I’m sick of hearing about it. Family members, if you’re reading this, text me and tell me you’ve read it. Kay thanks, bye. :::stares at phone:::

4. Embrace your voice. When I started out I wanted to be just like fashion bloggers I looked up to. I wrote super bubbly and talked about the look for less :::twirls hair:::, and the “hot trends” :::pops gum:::, and tried to vomit pink sunshine into my posts, but failed. Miserably. A good friend of mine stopped me and basically said my posts didn’t match my personality. And they didn’t. I was so busy trying to get people to like me, I morphed into a stepford blogger. Once I embraced my snarky, sarcastic, self deprecating sense of humor and weaved it into my blog, my brand kind of fell into place. And it helped me become comfortable in my own studded 4-inch heels.

5. You won’t become Man Repeller status over night. Or even over five years. Seriously sometimes I stay awake at night wondering, “hmm sooo… will I ever get a book deal?!” You rarely hear about the blood, sweat, sacrifice, and tears that goes into creating and maintaining a blog. I believe deep down in my dark soul that hard work pays off. As a blogger, you succeed because you love it. Because it’s in your blood and bones and gives you this ridiculous sense of joy to know people are reading your words. This has been my dream since I was a little girl. And to be super cliche and corny, dreams take a lot of nurturing and time to become realities. It’s just not my time yet. And one more cliche for the road … patience is a motha fuckin’ virtue … what WHAT! :::drops mic:::

FIRST POST :::sheds tear:::

Don’t Believe The Hype: Skinnies Aren’t Dead

June 29, 2016.Reading time 4 minutes.

You know when you see a woman with a 1980’s feathered hairstyle and you think to yourself, “WHY!” Well, I’m starting to believe that will be me with my skinny jeans. 30 years from now when all the “cool kids” are rocking their futuristic silver sparkle pants or some shit, I’ll just be boppin’ down the street in my 2016 J Brand Jean Skinnies thinking I look hot, but really, everyone will be all, “look at that old bag, she looks like she fell out of one of those old SnapChat posts or something.”

I keep reading articles from some of my favorite fashion bloggers and editors saying they are feeling the death rattle of the skinny. And I gotta say, it slightly hurts my soul.

Which then leads me to fear becoming the awful lady in the grocery store that looks like she fell out of a early 80’s Aerosmith video and STILL thinks she looks amazing.

Skinny jeans are a staple in my wardrobe. But I gotta say, in 2007 when they came on to the scene, I was kind of mortified by them. I didn’t know life outside of a designer bootcut jean paired with pointy flats (what up mid-2000s) and a flouncy black “going out shirt.” But I bought a simple pair of skinnies from Forever 21 for like literally $10 and just like that, my life was changed.

9 years later and I’m still rocking skinnies. And so what? They make my ass look great. Most are super stretchy and comfortable (I could literally do a high kick if I wanted). And hi, they go with everything. If I didn’t have my arsenal of black skinnies, I don’t know what the hell I would do with my life.

While popular trends like off the shoulder tops and culottes are all the rage right now, I would bet my arsenal of black skinny jeans that in a year or so, those trendsetters will be scrolling through old Instagram pictures and be mortified that culottes ever made it on to their bodies. Mark my words, yo. I remember back in 2005 I rocked culottes with tall Ugg boots. CULOTTES. AND TALL. UGG BOOTS. You can’t come back from that shit.

But skinnies are forever. Audrey Hepburn wore them for crying out loud. And quite frankly anything that woman wore gets thrown in the category of “timeless.” I should just drop the mic here, but I’ll keep going.

So sure, go indulge in your adventurous style side if you find the skinny trend stale or boring. Get your palazzo pant on. Try to bring back bell bottoms. Culottes are cool. Do it. Do it all. But in my opinion, right next to the perfectly crisp white button down, the classic black dress, and other wardrobe essentials, a nice pair of skinnies should be right along side them.

So while I normally bow down to anything Emily Goulet of Philly Mag writes and wears, I have to politely disagree with her take on the skinny. I just don’t think we should shun a style simply because it has been around for a long time.

Now if you will excuse me I believe there may be a dusty pair of bootcut jeans in the back of my closet that I need to set fire to.