A Brat's Guide To Bratting

Once you go BRAT you never go BACK.

*Prefer to listen instead of read? No worries, darling. Listen to the audio below!

If you think I’m just another basic writer bitch hopping on the BRAT bandwagon ‘cause I’m looking to increase my engagement—we’ve *clearly* never met. I’m not that bitch. I’ve never been that bitch. If my intentions in publishing this piece were as crude as coppin’ clicks—I would’ve published it weeks ago. I’ve never been timely. 

Why? 

Glad you asked. 

‘Cause I’m a *real* brat. 

And a *real* brat always shows up colossally late to the party with far too much to say. 

In the name of transparency, I decided to publish this terribly timed brat article because someone reminded me, just the other night, to write what I know. 

What do I know? I aimlessly pondered as I tapped my nails against my hot pink wine glass and guzzled. I was staring into the abyss when it struck me: I don’t know much, but I do know brat. After all: I’ve bratting since I tumbled out of the womb crying mascara tears clutching a glass of champagne I didn’t pay for.

Here’s the thing: I love the brat life. And I want to recruit as many people as possible to join my coven of cunty charismatics. Because the brattiest girls are the happiest girls, and the world at large is a better place when girl happiness is prioritized.

In short: I’m sharing this with you for the greater good of humankind. What can I say: I’ve always had an anthropological streak in me. 

When pop icon Charlie XCX brought “Brat” to the mainstream with her appropriately named sixth studio album back in June—some fake brats were pissed. I guess they thought their brat identity was being co-opted or some other bullshit only a privileged white girl with approximately twenty-seven sticks up her ass would dare bitch about?

Personally, I was so elated when the brat movement hijacked the culture I took the afternoon off and celebrated in true brat style: sunning topless by the pool whilst slugging rosé stolen from my father’s fridge.

I’d been long waiting for the brat takeover. I was so over that a-sexual, anti-fashion, snooze, “clean girl aesthetic” that’s been dulling the social media landscape the past few years. Weren’t you? I mean, who in their right mind would prefer to gaze at a feed made up of neutral manicures clutching beige Stanely Cups, when we could take in blurry pictures of glam party girls being fabulously messy? 

I know you want to brat. That’s why you’re here. And look: brat summer might be coming to an end—indeed—but brat culture is here to fucking stay. (And slay).

And the good news is now you’ve got moi—your very own big sister brat guide here to help you navigate the nuance of the brat life.

Maybe you’ve got the *fashion* part down. But here’s the thing: brat aesthetic is one thing. Brat lifestyle is another. And while smudgy black eyes and lime green have *definitely* played a sizable role in brat culture since the beginning of time—it’s not the whole story. I won’t say much more— you’ll get it soon. 

I don’t care where you’re from or who you are or what your daddy does or does not do. 

I believe more than I believe in my *higher-power* Lana Del Rey, that with enough tenacity any one of us can adopt the brat lifestyle. I’m going to start you out slowly, though. This piece is going to detail the first three lessons that serve as the foundation of bratting. You have to put the floorboards down before you decorate the house—if you catch my drift. 

Stick with me and in about six months you’ll not only be dressing the part of brat—you’ll be ~living~ the part. 

Welcome to the dark side BABY BRAT. You live here now, btw. ‘Cause here’s what this ~seasoned brat~ knows for sure: once you go brat, you never go back. 

Brat Lesson #1: A BRAT IS NOT A BITCH. 

Do you know what will expose you as a brat rookie? Acting like a bitch. 

Because a brat is many things—entitled, messy, deep, buzzed, charismatic, talkative, spoiled, a—what the French might call—an “enfant terrible.” 

But a bitch?

A bitch is not one of them. 

No shade. Bitches I see you, I love you—but I’m *not* you. 

I see how it could be confusing to girls fresh off the bus from bumblefuck. We’ve got some over-arching themes in common: we’re both disruptive to the “order of things.” We take up a lot of space. We’re disregulating to those still living in the patriarchal zeitgeist.

We’re the same animal, two different breeds. Two different planets orbiting the same sun. 

What I’m trying to say is we’re vastly different iterations of girls frequenting ONE club.

Let’s get into it.

Close your mascara-laden eyes. Utilize your beautiful imagination. Envision *you,* dear reader, hanging out at some fabulously trashy nightclub in the dark underbelly of Chelsea, Manhattan. Somewhere on 11th Avenue where the rats run in herds and the coke never runneth dry. In the bathroom, you bump into an old friend from high school while washing the sleaze off your paws. She invites you to sit at her table. 

There’s bottle service, of course. 

The only thing is holding court at the table is a bitch. She *definitely* isn’t the one paying and she’s probably not even fucking whatever sorry bro’s been coerced into paying—but it *don’t* m-a-t-t-e-r, honey. A bitch exudes an authoritative energy that doesn’t need to be rooted in any form of reality. She could be the brokest joke in the bar, but she’s still the lofty gatekeeper. 

And if the bitch says she doesn’t want you at the table, you’re not welcome at the table, no matter how hot or famous you are. 

This means one must tread very lightly around the bitch at the helm of the nightlife. Sprinkle her with a few light compliments—but not too many because a bitch can smell your desperation and it repulses her to be perfectly frank. Bitches are hard to please and it’s a real balancing act in winning their approval.

Bitches don’t like weakness; but you must blow just the right amount of smoke up their asses. Be strong; yet subservient. Shut up and take her lashings; but don’t you dare cry you pussy ass bitch. Don’t be a shrinking violet; but don’t talk too much. Do all of this and make yourself the butt of the joke and offer her your drugs—and you’re in. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.

So who cares if you have to degrade yourself a bit, at first? Who needs self-preservation when you could have self-medication via bitch validation and a warm vodka cranberry on the house? 

Brats on the other hand—we’re the opposite. You’re in for the night, not for life. It’s unlikely that we’ll remember you if we run into you again, but we have a lovely, breezy “more the merrier!” mentality. All are welcome at the table, babe. Come sit, babe. 

We won’t just invite you into our velvet rope sanctuary, we’ll invite your little cousin who is celebrating her 21st. Your blacked-out friend friend should join too. So should your blacked-out boyfriend. Your blacked-out girlfriend. Your blacked-out non-binary partner. Your blacked-out bitchy gay. Your blacked-out Republican Aunt. 

What makes this bratty? Purr. Thought you’d never ask! This one is my ~ specialty ~ so I’ll happily lay it out for you: 

What makes this scene bratty is this: the brat similar to the bitch, is also most definitely not the one footing the bill.

But that tiny little cute detail isn’t going to stop her from cheerily inviting your entire family and graduating class to join us at the table and omg don’t they dare pay put it’s on US! (By “us,” she means she has no idea, but isn’t worried ‘bout it).  

And while we’re at it didn’t you mention it’s your cousin’s 21st? Let’s order CHAMPAGNE! Real champagne. From Champagne, France. You only turn 21 once—so fuck it, chuck it on the card! (By which I mean—whatever poor sucker went to the bathroom at the wrong time and has now found himself alone at the table with a 5k bill—as the brat and her new bestest friends whose names she’ll never ever remember hobble into a taxi and speed to after hours on the lower east side). 

Brat Lesson #2:  DON’T THINK THOUGHTS

Do you find yourself stuck in a loop of thoughts of pending doom? 

Do you talk yourself out of your deepest desires?

Do you want to do *so* *many* *things* but allow the sneering voice in your head—the voice that bitchily croons, “DON’T DO IT, YOU’LL FAIL”—stop you from doing all of *those* *things*? 

Yes?

I have excellent news! Now that you’re in the brat pack you can get off the hampster wheel. By which, I mean, you can release yourself from your prison of limiting beliefs, and start exploring this big, beautiful world, without hesitation.

Because brats don’t overthink. 

Anything. 

Not because (necessarily) because we’re dumb. We just harbor an effortless trust in our intuition. That or we’re just delusional. Probably the latter, but who cares? 

Here’s the bottom line: a brat shoots from the hip. We walk right up to the buffet in ripped fishnets, help ourselves to the oysters and purr fuck your data, bro—I’m going for it anyway! And if you’re a numbers person and care to look at the data you’ll find this haphazard, extemporaneous way of living shockingly works in our favor (at least, most of the time). 

Think about it: what is the origin of the brat? Why did we ever get coined as brats to begin with? We’re not mean. But we get what we want. When we want. No matter what. Even when it doesn’t make sense.

Okay, so maybe we’re the smallest person in the room. We still manage to not just get a seat at the table, but the best seat and our meal is fucking comped. 

Why? Because we don’t think all that much, therefore we don’t doubt ourselves! And that my friends, is how you get ahead in life. 

Real talk: I hardly graduated from high school my grades were so deplorable, I have zero college degree to my name, and somehow have managed to score bizarrely academic jobs.

I’ve been a senior writer for a major mainstream publication, an executive editor of a magazine, secured a book deal, and am signed with a literary agent who represents serious expert writers with one million PhDs and legit opinions, none of which I have. 

I’ll be the first to admit—none of this adds up. 

But here’s the truth: if I had the ability to think cohesively—if I knew how to slow down—I would’ve most definitely talked myself out of applying for my first staff writing job. They wanted candidates who’d gone to journalism school, not downtown girls clomping around the city in platform Mary Janes. 

But I had this irrepressible impulse to go for it—so I did. And the rest is history. 

So kill those brain cells and watch your dreams come true. 

Lesson #3. A BRAT IS UNBOTHERED. 

There are two types of people in the world: those who spend time worrying about what others think of them and brats. 

“I can’t believe she said I’m entitled! That I only got the gig because of nepotism! Doesn’t Sheila know I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am? SHE HAS NO IDEA WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH!” Peggy weeps into her martini. The meltdown doesn’t end at happy hour either.

Peggy obsesses over the fact that a *coworker * (allegedly) referred to her as entitled at the company holiday party all week long. It consumes her. Haunts her. Renders her sleepless. 

Peggy decides: it’s time to plot revenge against that nasty bully Shiela. “I’ll take that slut down,” she hisses into the mirror, “if it’s the last thing I do.” 

Maybe she even gets a little crazy. At the next office happy hour she spots Sheila’s lost phone glimmering under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom stall. Dizzied by the spell of petty vengeance and thin skin, Peggy snatches it and stuffs it into her basic bitch Coach bag. 

She can’t help herself. She’s so heated that someone could accuse her of being *something* she promises she’s not.  

The next thing Peggy knows she’s hacked her Instagram and is attempting to ruin her life by posting a slew of problematic stories under the guise of Sheila. 

I wish I could say I’m being dramatic, but I’ve seen the most normal-seeming of girls fall down the tunnel of insanity, in the name of self-defense. 

And it makes me sad. 

Because who cares what Sheila thinks of you? I don’t think about Sheila at all. ‘Cause I’m a brat, babe.

Which means I’m unbothered by the opinions of anyone who isn’t my fabulous mother. 

I think of all the brat qualities I’ve had the privilege of possessing over the years, staying in my *own* ~glittery~ little lane has served me the most. It’s not because I’m a particularly evolved person. I’m not. I’m just easily bored. And nothing is more boring than getting caught up in what the Sheilas of the world think about you. 

If I was evolved and charitable too, I’d try to give you a pep talk. I’d analyze *why* Sheila feels the need to talk shit. I’ll spare you because we both have better shit to do with our precious time—but here’s what I’ll leave you with—obsessing over shit talk is an energy suck. 

All that frenzied energy Peggy wasted trying to seek justice against Sheila (yawn) could’ve gone toward creating something epic! If Peggy just rolled her eyes, grinned, and moved on with her life—she could’ve probably written a fabulous book, pitched a TV show, partied with the fabulous freaks of Avenue A, made a new best friend, traveled to Europe, gotten a raise or had a fabulous breakdown which resulted in her rebuilding her life into some kind of edgy, stunning masterpiece. All of which are much more gratifying, and much more BRAT, than stewing in stupidity. 

Listen, Linda. I work on the internet. People have been saying terrible things about me since I published my first article a decade ago. If I’d obsessed over all that—there wouldn’t be enough time in the day to write the next article, let alone write a book I’m super proud of. 

And while I don’t *condone* internet bullying (get therapy, sweet trolls)—I also don’t let it get to me. Because anyone criticizing what you’re doing, wishes they had the chutzpah to do what you’re doing. They’re the bitches on the bench! And while they’re sitting on the sidelines of life—we’ll be sparkling on the stage that is the messy theatrical PLAY that is OUR life.

Because the best thing about being a brat is this: we don’t need to be artists in order to make art. Our life is fucking art. 

So be unbothered, live freely, don’t think a single thought, and just do you, baby brat! I love you.

*Check out my website and coaching services! I’ll be your BRAT coach!