Wild for the night fuck being polite #basicbetchproblem
Sugar. Spice. Everything Nice. These were the ingredients used to create the basic bitch. And The Power Puff Girls. #basicbetchproblem
I think my jeans say everything by saying nothing #basicbetchproblem
So I shouldn’t try Christian Mingle? #basicbetchproblem
It all started when I was trying to take a really cool picture of myself in reflection of the glass on my balcony. It was pretty successful until I noticed my chandelier was in the background where the ocean should have been.
Obviously I #chandelier and upon exploring what that hashtag had to offer, I found so many great covers of the Sia song. God Bless.
She was actually kind of good, but just not here.
I was nervous this girl was going to start screaming a la “Psycho Girl Tries to Sing I Will Always Love You”
C’est la Vie?
I really appreciated Tony’s cover because he accidentally harmonized with his cat in the end.
I was trying to do a #15secondcover when Allie decided to harmonize on the last note. This probably wasn't going to be the take I chose due to the funky mouth movement, but I thought it was funny #cat #cats #meow #hashtagsmakemefeelstupid #buttheywork #chandelier #sia #singer #guitar #acoustic #funkymouthmovents #staleface
I’m pretty sure this is the guy from “Botched” who spent $100G trying to look like Justin Bieber.
Is this a guy or a girl?
Chandelier sounds weird on an organ.
Let’s just let the kid from Dance Mom’s do her.
No seriously, I’m actually really busy #basicbetchproblem
I’m really glad V. Stiviano decided to sabotage her boss because this Donald Sterling saga has entertained me in way that Malaysian Flight 370 hasn’t in months. As some of you know, I went home to Washington D.C. for mother’s day and one very jet lagged night, I had this horrific epiphany. For a fleeting moment, I felt meaningless and empty, like I was this basic bitch who was as deep as a puddle. Like I was V. Stiviano. It became very clear on my 6 hour flight form DC to LA that Donald Sterling was more than some rotting sack, sippin’ on some crazy juice. You can hate rap music and other cultures, that’s your prerogative, but hating on Magic Johnson? How dare you.
If there’s one thing that freedom of speech and the internet have created, it’s nonsense. Excessive and hilarious nonsense. Here’s Instagram’s best response to V. Stiviano, off her very own Instagram account.
It starts off with people just throwing regular shade like “gold digger” or “tranny”, adjectives everyone uses when they describe V. Stiv. We all have opinions and it’s very important that we share these eloquent and private details on public platforms.
So after we established she was an ugly, but very sexually active, gold-digging tranny, with plastic surgery and who multiple races were disassociating themselves from, we decided she was unfit for motherhood and presidency.
And then people just started asking for sex, because if you’ve had sex with Donald Sterling, literally anything still breathing is a step up.
I feel a lot of pressure to be perfect, not in real life, but on social media. Take Facebook, is it just me or somewhere in the new Terms & Agreement does it state your profile pic has to be professionally done and get 60 likes in the first hour (that’s a like per minute). Does everyone have a friend with a Canon EOS to capture all these magical, candid, care-free moments for you to choose from? Your photos are incredible, and then there’s me, a blurry picture where I hammer a pen into a cork because desperate times call for desperate measures. I love my picture, but I have to stay competitive with my super-fit and super photogenic sorority sisters… and those bitches from high school. So now I get stressed because not only does my profile picture not seem “care-free” and “jealousy-enducing”, but as a college grad, it needs some semblance of professionalism so my boss doesn’t ask me “what kind of message” I want to send to my co-workers. Sidenote: I blocked her. I still need to post everything I’m doing to prove I have the lifestyle of the Jenners girls, the work ethic of Frank Underwood and Bad Girl Riri’s attitude. The icing on the cake is another girl got engaged and I really can’t deal with another 4,000 posts detailing every second of it. There should be some sort of engagement-ettiquate class so your single friends don’t fantasize about breaking your ring with an ice pick.
Then there’s LinkedIn, which in all honesty, does anyone even care about your LinkedIn? I bet I could put “assistant to cat and professional poop thrower” and no one would bat an eye. It’s all fun and games until I get requests from old acquaints who apparently run Goldman Sachs at 25 and didn’t need 4 google searches to correctly spell “acquaints”. As I update my LinkedIn, which looks nicer than my actual resume, I add every highlight in my work career. I’m talking babysitting in the 7th grade, for not just any family of 4, but the Vice President of the United States. I mean no one is actually going to read this right? They’re just going to look at the heading, find someone way to re-evaluate their self-worth and then move on. It’s fine if I “babysat” Joe Biden’s kids, who are actually many years my senior. What are you, some sort of fact-checking historian?
No you’re not.
I know this from reading your LinkedIn and then googling you to make sure you weren’t lying. So in addition to adding details like, “worked with the entire cast of How I Met Your Mother“, which really means I saw them once on set, or currently dating Joseph Gordon Levitt, which translates to “held the door open”, I have become a professional bragger. It is really #stressful to exasperate career highlights like this! I need a #vacation.
Speaking of #vacation, I see that you recently traveled to St. Kitts/ St. Barts/ St. Croix/ any beautiful island with “Saint” in the title, via your Instagram. I thought the more followers I had, the more likes would come but that has proven to be the opposite. I get like no likes, ok like 15, and then stress out whether or not I should delete the photo because it’s embarrassing. How stupid is that?! On a serious note, my blog’s instagram whose following consists of spammers and porn stars, gets more likes than most of my photos. I am stressing out over my “popularity” on social media, which in no way is in direct correlation with my relationships in real life. Rather, it’s a test to see how well my family, friends and co-workers can operate their smart phones. Never mind that I’m probably the only person who looks at my own Instagram with any sort of critic, but who knows, I could have hidden enemies out there that thrive on the fact that I got 15 likes and they got 123. It’s quality not quantity! Right?
Also when did everyone become a model? I recently discovered you had a professional photographer around you at all times, but seriously, have you always had Kate Upton’s boobs and Britney’s abs circa 2003? I was not aware that Victoria’s Secret could call you at any second and you’d be runway ready. When did I become more Lena Dunham and less Brooklyn Decker? The answer is birth.
So here I am stressing about my Facebook/ LinkedIn/ Instagram when I get a notification that my phone is almost out of memory and I can’t save this super artsy pic of me next to some Venice graffiti, which would have gotten at least 40 likes. Stupid iPhone! I have no memory because I have 6, yes SIX, different Photoshop apps! It’s not just about taking a picture, it’s the ability to turn that picture of a piece of trash on the Venice boardwalk, add a fish eye, sharpen and filter it until it has the bright colors of the tropical island you were just traveling on and becomes something Francesca Eastwood would set on fire.
Annoyed, and trying to figure out how to take the perfect picture, I stumble onto Pintrest which apparently is not the same thing as Tumblr.
Pinterest confuses me the most because it consists of beautiful models, cake and relationships advice. It’s like how basic can you bitches get? I already see enough couples making out on the beach in real life so seeing well dressed girls aimlessly walking on streets eating cronuts just annoys me. Attention world, if you are going to make the cronut recipe you saw on Pinterest, you are probably not going to look like the white girls in ridiculously skimpy bikinis next to it.
So now I’m back to Instagram because this super sunset with an Ernest Hemmingway quote might be the photo I’ve been looking for. UPDATE: it’s not and everyone still looks like a model and averages 100 likes per photo.
Needing a laugh and a lot of wine, I turn to Vine. Apparently EVERYONE is a professional comedian in addition to being a model, with a ridiculous resume, and a metabolism 4x faster than the normal rate.
I try to find some solace in Twitter, because I only use that for the news, but nothing is getting Favorited or Retweeted. Then I realize the only things on my twitter account are retweets of @whitegrlproblems and me being drunk. Did I mention I’m a basic bitch?
Now I’m back to Facebook to post a photo I not only Photoshopped, picstiched and Instagramed, but also emailed to myself due to the lack of memory on my phone. My Instagram didn’t get enough likes, I’m not funny, my twitter is unoriginal, my Facebook picture don’t get the like per minute guarenteed in the new Terms & Agreement. My phone is running out of battery in addition to memory because running all these stupid apps is a complete waste of energy, but, oh wait now I’m up to 30 likes so I am validated.
So forget having a successful career, making lots of money, financial independence, having a boyfriend, eating and exercising, having hobbies, playing sports, talking to people or anything interactive because my life is completely validated through my social media interactions or lack there of. You can Google me and I come up. Take that insta-slut!
Let me know if you find a good therapy app because I now lack the communication skills to tell a doctor of my growing anxiety. I can only text ,and honestly, I’m not getting a great wi-fi connection in here so it looks like I’ll be using SMS, which is #totes going to drag this conversation on by a good 10 minutes. Ugh. #FML
I’ll admit, when I first started using the phrase “basic bitch”, I have very little understanding of what that phrase actually meant. It’s like slang and that’s all I needed to know. I began writing about basic bitches, what they did on an average Tuesday, survival tips for music festivals they’d likely attend, and obviously I followed a shit ton of basic bitches on Insta. I may not have known much about basic bitches, but I knew that basic bitches loved insta. They would probably quote that against a the silhouette of a girl splashing in the water and get 1000 likes in 5 minutes. Basic bitches love quotes and they love skinny girls at the beach.
One day I was asked to define what a basic bitch was. I couldn’t. So I looked it up.
The first entry on urban dictionary described a basic bitch phrased so eloquently they could be the second verse of a Nikki Minaj song. I was not that basic bitch. The second entry described someone who was dull and low energy. That was also not me. The third entry, described a girl who “thought she was the shit because she owned material goods and also believed she held a higher standard than regular people”.
Was I this basic bitch?
After little deliberation, I decided, I indeed, met the qualifications of that basic bitch. How did I become this basic bitch? Had my years at an elite private school where I took AP Art History and Calculus led me to believe I was somehow smarter than those around me? Maybe it was because I was one of the 8 people who purchased Sofia Coppola’s “The Bling Ring”. Had seeing those narcissistic, kleptomaniacs with hot bods made me think I was one of them? The more I researched “Basic Bitches”, the more I realized I was one of them. I am the proud owner of a North Face, take great comfort in my LuLu Lemon yoga pants and own black Uggs. This is what I am wearing right now. I am so basic.
I love Sex & the City. Sometimes I skip work outs and once called in sick to work because there was a six hour marathon on E!
BREAKING NEWS: CNN now reporting @rihanna Instagram account is somewhere in the Indian Ocean.
— Libby de Leon (@schlibby) May 10, 2014
I own the book version of “He’s Just Not That Into You” and I read it quite frequently.
One time, I was drunk at a bar and in very broken Spanish tried to convince a dark, but non-Latino bartender that I was the heiress to de Leon Tequilla so I could get free shots. I even showed him my ID.
I went on one Tinder date and it was awful. I swore off dating. A week later, I downloaded Tinder.
I have a 4 foot poster of Britney Spears that hung above my bed all four years of college. It now hangs in my closet for thinspiration.
I was so disappointed in myself. How could I let this happen? I am better than this. I proudly eat gluten. I avoid “to be” verbs when I write. I’m not really sure what it means to be vegan (you just eat vegetables, right? Also epic fail on the avoidance of “to be” verbs). I read Vanity Fair for crying out loud. That is WAY above the average reading level of a basic bitch.
Then I remembered something important about myself. I hate Marilyn Monroe. I think she’s a homewrecking, talentless, pill popper. Basic bitches LOVE Marilyn, they quote her all the time and totally ignore the goddess that is Jackie Kennedy Onassis. I knew in that moment that I would never be one of them. I immediately unfollowed every Victoria’s Secret model and Vogue from Instagram. I picked up a Spanish dictionary. I am going to get through this.
Realizing you’re a Basic Bitch is the first step in moving past the tendencies of a Basic Bitch. Kate Middleton will always be my religion, but I don’t need 35 hashtags about it. It’s fine to enjoy country music, but that doesn’t mean I should start talking about “my upbringing” in a fake southern accent. And you know what, I think Carrie Bradshaw can be a total bitch. I mean seriously, Big over Aiden? Only a basic bitch would make that mistake. So now, I’m me, a real human being and a real hero. And you know how I know that? I own multiple songs off the Drive soundtrack.