Dedicated to the Basic Bitches All Across the World

I love basic bitches. I love basic bitches, because basic bitches are meeeee. And I should only love those which are me. (Reeeeeemixxxxxxx)

The concept of “the basic bitch” is so in right now. Like, “THAT bitch be BASIC!” Being dubbed a basic bitch means you’re a boring broad with no eye for the non-basic. What defines a basic bitch? Well, according to what I’ve seen on the world wide web, a basic bitch is an average Jane who enjoys outlet shopping, pumpkin lattes and other seasonal coffees/beers, the dollar flip flop sale at Old Navy, desk jobs ranging from 40-80k annually, The Notebook/Ryan Gosling in general, Longchamp bags, instagram’ing bodies of water or sunsets, popular clothing worn for comfort, Pinkberry, TGI Fridays, hash tagging “love my life”/other things about life being pleasant, joining Planet Fitness, sock buns, discussing crockpot recipes,  Toms, going to school for business/teaching/nursing. Basically the basic bitch is someone who likes what a lot of other basic bitches like and do what other basic bitches do. Well you know, I have some coming out to do because I’m a a bit of a basic bitch myself.

Bitches all over the world like to think of themselves as “not boring”, and herein lies the problem with the basic bitch. No one wants to be boring. But let me ask you bitches this: What is wrong with enjoying flavors of Fall, comfortable clothing, a good monthly bargain on a gym, some froyo topped with coconut and granola, or bragging that you’re sitting by the sea, and going to school for something in demand? As for Old Navy flip flops, they are the perfect amount of flip, with a good amount of flop and I can dig that. I can match my $1 footwear to my flag tank on the 4th of July, throw on a red white and blue bandana, and people will consider me “festive”. What’s so wrong with being festive/4th of July’sy?

I’d like to give all the bitches who don’t consider themselves basic out there a little wake up call: you’re as basic as the rest of us. Because the number one sign of a basic bitch is calling other bitches a “basic bitch”. Bragging about being non-boring is more boring than a sober game of Scrabble on a rainy day. Real non-basic bitches don’t concern themselves with matters of the basic. All these women namecalling basic bitches need to realize that the most boring thing in the world is not admitting to being the slightest bit boring. You think people find you fascinating because you are “artsy” (subjective), minored in Philosophy,  love your weird ass job, have never owned a pair of Uggs, made your own Toms out of hemp, only drink your coffee black imported from a 3rd world country, and only shop at Trader Joe’s? I’m pretty basic and I like Trader Joe’s, so what does that say?! Because let me remind you: basic or not, NO ONE GIVES A FUCK. Boring or interesting: people only care for so long.  Just be who you are and if other people like the same shit, stop getting exasperated and pretending not to like it anymore. Everyone is a little bit weird, and that makes us all a little bit similar, thus you’re basic unless you’re Angelina Jolie. And that about sums it up.




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Vitamins and Tour Trolleys

Every once in awhile, annually before getting married, I go on a week long health kick. Cut the booze out. Cut the guacamole y Tostitos out. Cut the self loathing on the couch while I watch Dance Moms. JK, I love Dance Moms, and myself! But I do go on health kicks maybe once every 6 months for (short) periods of time. And I try to take vitamins. Because vitamins are healthy and good for your organs (liver, I hope). Last Summer I was on a “don’t forget your vitamins EVERY DAY or you’ll fucking DIE” thing. Mainly because Sally Field osteoporosis commercials scared the SHIT out of me for many years. Like, what if I’m just walking and break my clavicle? Hell no. I also am partial to ignoring pill bottle directions. Just for vitamins and natural supplements, NOT for hardcore drugs, don’t worry, I’m no fool!

ANYWAYS, last Summer was on a vita-crack binge and thought it was bologna that you had to eat before you take one measly vitamin. So the first day of my binge, I ignored it. It was a Saturday and I was headed out to day drink at a family cookout with Ryan. Ate a couple raspberries from the fridge then popped a Women’s vitamin (because I’m a woman. So weird, here I was thinking I’m 17), and headed out the door into the glorious sun. Well, I made it to the steps outside of my apartment before starting to feel something …weird. Almost like…nausea. But that would be impossible, I thought to myself, I was sober last night! I walk 5-10 more feet, slowly. I notice a group of tourists standing across the street in front of the Adams Mansion, awaiting the next trolley for their tour around Quincy. Ryan, who is walking in front of me, notices I’ve stalled. I get to the middle of the street. And boom, start puking. Ryan looks at me in horror. I am throwing up red raspberries (AKA “BLOOD” to the asshole tourists across the street STARING at me) right in the middle of my street. Some old man shouts “Hey missy!!!! Are you alright!!!!”. NO I was NOT alright! Think you’re having a bad day checking out tombs in Quincy Center?! I’m over here puking up red shit in front of 15-20 strangers with fanny packs and good intentions!

Fuck you Sally Field. sally

Thank You For Reading My Bullshit

One boring week night in November 2011, I was chatting with my friend Jess about the time we got shitfaced and psychoanalyzed every single character on the Nickelodeon show “Doug”. I was all like “You know what? Random people on the internet need to know that Bebe Bluff’s shopping addiction was just her overcompensating for the lack of love her father showed her as a child. I think I’ll start a blog as a platform to explore these issues in Bluffington”. Then I did. And random people shared it. Then I wrote more blogs about the city I grew up in. And it wasn’t a very flattering portrayal, but still, people shared it. And I came up with some lame name for the blog with my friend Mike while we chatted on Facebook the same night I wrote the first blog (I named it via a Facebook message. Because it was important to me). And I’d have picked something a little less lame if I’d have known even one person would share anything I wrote. Coulda shoulda woulda. AmIRite? Hundreds of blogs and bottles of cheap Pino later (my taste has changed from Grigio to Noir in the last 2 1/2 years. I feel we’ve evolved together, you guys), I got pretty excited to reach 2,800 “likes” on Facebook. Which leads me on a tangent: how sad is it to base anything around “likes” on social media? But…fuck it! (Haha, “but fuck it”, get it?!). 2,800 seemed pretty cool to me. It’s a little more than twice as much as my last car repair order! In 2 years I’ve gotten yelled at (a lot), threatened with a few baseless lawsuits, and had a few strange (yet funny) moments at bars. But it was worth it, and worth meeting anyone I have met through BCMSS. So, THANK YOU for being one of those randoms to read me, share me, like me. You are my e-friend forever.


Passing Notes

Remember life before texting? Me neither. But I did find a box of old notes from middle school through high school at my parents’ house the other night! I’m that sappy psycho who likes to look at this kind of shit years later and reminisce (I’ve done this maybe twice with these notes so they are mostly just taking up room). The sad thing is, kids these days don’t know what they are missing: not paying attention to equations for 45 minutes so that we could write to our girlfriends about crushes,  tests we failed, Christmas presents, Justin Timberlake, what we were being for halloween (school girl Britney Spears and Salvation Army models), and what we bought at Limited Too. My plan was to write a cutesy blog about the way we folded the paper and the lingo we used in our notes (“w/b/s!” “n/m/g/o/h” “s/o/s/h” “LYLAS!” “F/U/2/C/ONLY!”…the usual). But once I got to my second note from friends dating back to 1999, I felt less nostalgic and more like I was the spawn of fucking satan! Like, my friends and I were BAD!

It all starts off innocently enough. Just some “I love this boy. You love that boy”, coming up with adorably lame nicknames for crushes like “monkey” and “hippo” (wicked cute?), “love” letters from first boyfriend, St. Ann’s dances, 3 way call planning (“attack” rather)….take a look:

(click on pictures to enlarge)

note1 note2note3pic4who

But as 7th grade progressed, we started to become assholes from hell. Shoplifting/chewing and screwing at Friendly’s on half day Tuesday/conning our parents into giving us money was the new thing. We also enjoyed being dramatic and passive aggressive in our “PS’s”



As I got further in the notes, high school started and I began to notice a creepy trend in switching boyfriends.


Then…waiting at the T for booze at 2 in the afternoon? Indoor suspension?!?!?!!?! PASSES TO THE LAVATORY DURING HUTCH’S ALGEBRA 1 LESSON?!?!?!?! (that’s NQHS vintage right there!)


Boys we liked writing us letters from juvie!!!!


So what I thought would be a fun look back in my history, has led me on a tangent to say I’M SORRY MOM!!!!! I wonder if kids who text/sext run into these issues?


Tuesdays With Molly: Dick Pics & Headaches

Last week I somehow came into some pictures of a famous teen father. Don’t ask me how. Basically they were given to me by a friend of a friend who was cool with me blogging it. At first I was going to write everything about this girl’s (very QUICK) encounter with the guy, but then I got scared of lawsuits. Such is life these days. Everyone always is all “Freedom of speech, GURL! Preach it!”. I get that, but I just don’t want the headache. Plus I’ve *researched (*Googled) “Libel” and it scares me. I’ve had some close calls. Like, one time I Facebook statused about my friends receiving insanely bad service at a local bar and all of a sudden a “lawyer” was inboxing me. Was the guy really a lawyer or was he a coke addicted bouncer at the bar, ten points shy of an Associate’s degree in Criminal Justice? I don’t fucking know. But I do know that I don’t like headaches. Another headachy time I tried to start a jewelry business with my best friend and promote it on my blog UNTIL another jewelry business owner inboxed me saying I was copying her business by using one of the same materials to make the bracelet. It gave me an instant headache so I quit the business after putting a lot of time and effort and money and heart into it. Some would call it “giving up”, but I would call it “HATE headaches”. Luckily the blogging world isn’t quite as cut throat as the customer service/jewelry business so I took it as a sign that my real “place” is here, on the world wide web. With you. Whoever you are. Talking about dick pics. I just have to be careful what I say. Or delete what I say 5 minutes after posting it.

Anyways (TANGENTS!), I can’t blog the teen dad story. But I can blog about dick pics. Because they make me really angry.

Men: This is really important. NO WOMAN WANTS A PICTURE OF YOUR WANG. EVER. It’s really the most atrocious thing I can think of happening to my iphone. The only exception to this is when it’s an ass-clown “celebrity” and we can submit the pictures to TMZ for a profit. Do they really think that they can get away with sending them to a total stranger without some random blogger with an affinity for scandals getting her mitts on them?! Aside from the D-list celeb scenario, I promise all men that when girls receive a picture of it, they are laughing, feeling uncomfortable, showing their girlfriends, judging you, and wondering if you are a sexual deviant/offender. In no particular order. Don’t give me any of that “some people are visual and it turns them on!”. No. Actually, some people think you are doing weird things alone in your room with a fork and a gerbil. I also would assume that guys who send them are recycling these pictures on Craigslist to everyone and their dog (literally).

The worst thing about a dick pic is that whenever I hear about girls getting one, they are always a surprise. Like imagine going to look at your phone and BOOM: SURPRISE WANG TO YOUR FACE AT 3 IN THE AFTERNOON. Afternoon delight? Or afternoon TURKISH delight (Get it? Because Turkish Delight is fucking gross but kind of funny because of it’s reference in Narnia? I don’t get it either). So what did we learn? That unless it’s someone you know actually likes you (and I personally am even opposed to THAT), just stop. They’re all gonna laugh at you.  Or sell it to TMZ.

For now, keep it in your pants and see you next Tuesday!

xoxo MOLLY <3laugh

I Don’t Like Kids

Don’t worry you guys, the title to this blog was a ploy to lure you. So you’d be all like “What kind of bitch ass satan non-woman doesn’t like kids?!” then click the link to find a picture of the wretched creature who wants to beat up babies or whatever. I like kids. I have a niece. She’s great. Babysat her the other day. Triple dog dared her to watch Child’s Play in the dark with me. She wouldn’t. Hates murder. Still think she’s great, even if she did turn down a triple dog dare. I a have a sister-in-law who lectures me about the Rugrats characters like I was born in ’05. Rattles off info to me like I’m some kind of a fool: “Phil and Lil LOVE worms. Tommy is BRAVE! Chuckie is a SCAREDY CAT!“, so I throw her for a real loop and start singing tunes from Reptar on Ice (“Dinosaur, dinosaur, ancient enemy of MAN!“). I still think she’s great even though she thinks I don’t know shit about Stu Pickles’ flood jeans.

See? I love kids. But I still think it’s rude to ask someone “When are you getting pregnant?!” unless you are a family member or friend. I mean, I can relate. I get drunk and beg my friends to marry their boyfriends:

“PLEASE!!!! I’m the ONLY asshole!!!! Just DO IT! YOU LOVE HIM! I think!!! Forget the past!!!!!! LOOK PAST ALL THE REASONS NOT TO!!!! WE COULD DOUBLE DATE!!!! LET’S GO TO NEWBURYPORT THIS SUMMER!!!!? NO?!”

You know who asks a question like “When are you getting pregnant/married/WHATEVER milestone”? An overzealous psychopath with an affinity for Dancing with the Stars, Tyson chicken dinners because “they’re easy”, BOGO sales/over-excessive online couponing. They are people who talk about colors too much and are overenthusiastic about lavender, people in general who say “BOGO”, people who Google “free/fun things to do in the city in the Summer”, and finally: people who look up things to do with sea glass on Pinterest. You want to assume that I am sterile or a monster because I don’t have kids? Fine. I’ll assume that your pocketbook is fake. Bitch.

So anyways, don’t be rude. I could always be rude back and be like “I hate kids.” Have you ever noticed that saying “I don’t like kids” is the most horrifying response you could ever give? It’s pretty awesome. Wicked into myself, hate kids. Boom. Antichrist status for life. ACS4L! stu