A month of much content.

Welcome to the life of unemployment. Currently it’s 2:46pm, and today I’ve watched 3 episodes of Dawson’s Creek, ate 1 bowl of minute rice, and I’ve not yet bathed. Nor do I plan to. What’s the use really? I plan to spend the rest of the day doing the laundry I’d intended to do a week ago, and watching more Dawson’s Creek, because I’ve missed Joey’s crooked smile, and Dawson’s general aura of idiocy combined with his painfully ugly face...









Then there’s Pacey, who never ceases to flatter and charm me. Yes, I know he’s not a real person, but I’ve spent most of my adolescence searching for my very own Pacey. Of course I haven’t found him, so I guess if you’re out there, Pacey-like-individual… I’m waiting… but not in a creepy, desperate way, more in an endearing, princess looking for her prince kind of way. Though, I’m sure saying this here is pretty pointless, as 99.9% of my readers are gay men. Shout out!

Besides the greasy hair and grotesque amounts of Dawson’s Creek, I’ve been having a fabulous summer. It all began in Vegas, where I rolled in style with my female family members. Vegas can really be summed up in a word: tacky.

Then I ventured over to Florida, to experience Disney World, and Miami. I wrote a blog when I got home, but never got around to posting it. So I’m going to insert it now….

Disney creates magic. So much palpable magic they can barely contain it within their Mickey shaped walls. Last year was my first ever venture into a Disney park…I was 21. Clearly my parents neglected my infantile needs. Needless to say, it was the most magical place ever. You really are unable to be unhappy in Disney Parks, and maybe this is a bad thing, or this is the best way to keep small children from lashing out at their parents. All you have to do when they’re having a temper tantrum is look at them sternly and suggest, “tommy, we’re at Disneyland, you’re NOT ALLOWED to be sad! Mickey mouse will come eat you if he sees those tears.” And that’s that. The kid shuts up, you laugh a little inside, everyone’s happy.

Now I had a few issues with Disney World. First of all, it’s too big. It’s the size of fucking Boston! You can’t walk from park to park because there’s an interstate connecting the two. Scratch that…I mean connecting the 4 parks and 2 water parks! I think Walt went a little crazy when making Disney World. Now I understand he wanted to make you feel like you’ve left reality and entered this inescapable world of bliss, but it’s just too much magic for any one person.

After we spent 4 days gallivanting across the great land mass they call Disney World, we ventured over to Miami. I had my skepticisms about Miami. I was certain I would feel completely inadequate aesthetically speaking. I envisioned a place where people never wear clothes, and all the women, with their incredibly perfect bodies, rollerblade around in pink bikinis and Oakley sunglasses. Sadly, I didn’t see a single bathing suit clad rollerblader, but I did see this man:













He had NO shame. His shame glad was clearly replaced with a second awesome gland, because to have the cahoonas to wear that tiny thong on the beach is something only a truly awesome person would do. I’m certain this man is a professional beach goer. He most likely worked as a financial planner for 40 some years, and was married with 3 kids, and loved his wife dearly. They had a 5 bedroom home in upstate Connecticut, and would spent summers at their cabin in the woods. One day, he woke up and discovered he wasn’t happy in this life. He packed his bags, abandoned his family, bought a thong and sought out a life of pleasure in Miami. He now spends his days on the beach and his nights at the clubs looking for a two-bit floozy. Meanwhile the wife and kids are struggling to stay afloat in Connecticut, where the wife works as a secretary and a waitress on the weekends. Soon though, she’ll meet another man, who her kids will hate, but she’ll adore. Eventually thonged man will realize his immoral life is becoming boring and return to the wife. At this point she’ll inform him that she’s in love with another man, and he’ll saunter off into the night, gaze up at the moon, and howl, “WHY ME!”. Cue credits.

The other thing I saw in Miami was homeless people. I’m forced to disagree that the homeless in Miami have it good, because I’m certain they’re crazier than the average homeless person. Most homeless males had wheelchairs to which they’d ride around and then sometimes find themselves in the middle of an intersection, not sure how they’d ended up there. Most of the time cars would just honk and drive around them, as if it were a daily occurrence. Eventually they’d wheel themselves out, but then, 10 minutes later, you could find them lost in the intersection once again.

The women were equally crazy and all carried around strollers and various child like paraphernalia. Often their stroller would get stuck somewhere and they’d growl and groan as they yanked it out. I’m bound to conclude that all this craziness is due to the weather. For the better part of the year it’s 30 plus degrees, and for the remainder of the year, it’s hurricane season. So either you’re being swept away by 400 mile an hour winds, or you’re intolerably hot and sweating uncontrollably.

I can attest too, that the heat makes you crazy, because at one point in our Disney adventure we’d come across a 34-degree day, and there was no escaping it. I couldn’t stop sweating, and that made me so angry and exasperated that I’d sweat more thinking about how angry I was. I almost started crying. It was a bad time in my life, but I’m certain it was all because of the heat. And it’s not a dry, can’t breath heat, it’s a humid heat where you’re always moist, whether you like it or not. Obviously the homeless have no escape from this heat, and I’m sure they’re equally as bothered as I was to be sweating. Plus at the end of the night I can go back to my air conditioned hotel room and take and nice shower, and they are forced to sleep in the sweat soaked clothes all night, and then wake up to find themselves lost in an intersection.

All in all it was a good time. Then I went to Sasquatch, kanye, and engaged in other various forms of crazed summer fun to which I’ll elaborate on later.

A permanent piece of my medium-sized Canadian heart

Could Tokyo Police Club be any more awful? Why the answer is an astounding YES, they can. I sometimes feel bad for them, because they’re so boring and homely, and they try to make good music, but they just fall so short.

I recently heard their latest musical catastrophe, a song called tessellate, which if you’re wondering means: “To form into a mosaic pattern, as by using small squares of stone or glass.” I’m certain the pale, scrawny 13 year old lead singer was all:“I heard this word today guys, and it’s like super awesome cool rad, and I think we should like totally make it a song!”
The other 13 year old, pale, scrawny, guitar player adds, “but like dood, we totally can’t make a whole song with just one word!?!”
Finally, the humble Jewish boy* in the band, (see above, he’s got like 7 sandwiches in hand), suggests, “but guys remember when we had that song where we chanted our own band name the whole time?? Why don’t we just do that again, but just say TESSELLATE in a mock British accent over and over.” Then, in unison, they applauded the brilliance of the Jewish band member! Hooray! Bar Mitzvah! Shalom! Hanukah! (* I’m Jewish so I’m allowed to make sly remarks on the topic.......well I’m not actually Jewish per se, but if I’d had the choice to be born either Jewish, or not Jewish, I’d chose the former.)

The song goes on to talk about how “broken hearts will tessellate…tonight.” God, what brilliant lyricist; they’re so poetic and endearing. Their 13 or so years spent on this earth have given them such beautiful insight into the world of severed hearts and unrequited love. When I hear that lyric I’m forced to envision axed cow hearts cauterized together to form a lovely mosaic pattern. Remember in high school when they forced you to dissect a cow’s heart? And it was fucking creepy as shit, and people spent the majority of the class running around and screeching at the top of their lungs every time someone touched the fucking thing? And it smelt like formaldehyde? And when you finally got the courage to cut the thing open, you had to saw for like 10 minutes? Meanwhile, your lab partner continued to yelp with ever motion of the knife? And then you finally got so fed up you cut off the aorta and chucked it at your feeble, annoying partner? Good times. Though, I was in “advanced placement” biology, so it’s probably just something us “90 percent average” kids did. Man we had it good.

I’ve forgotten what I began talking about. So now I’m going to stop…and leave for Disney World! Feel free to be jealous, because you know deep down in your tessellated heart that Disney brings on the magic like no other.

Collars Erect! "Why the popped must be stopped"

The Collar Popper.

They're the quintessence of what it means to be a douche bag...actually, I’m lead to believe that they coined the term. I hate them. I hate how they walk around in their too tight, pastel, American Eagle polo's with the collars popped. They're usually found in packs with other collar poppers who are equally as arrogant and dim-witted.










Often, the collar popping clans will get together on Friday nights in a pre-bar ritual I like to call “getting yourself psyched to knock up some whores!” They begin by all standing in front of the bathroom mirror in their effeminately coloured polo’s, lubricating their hair into faux hawks. Once they’re done that, they pause, pucker their lips, turn to their cohorts and yell, "COLLARS UP!"

Once at the bar, they're usually found hitting on females and saying things like:
"Hey baby...wanna GRIND?!" or
"you see how my collar's popped? yea, well my penis is popped for you hunny! ZING!....wanna GRIND!?"

Sadly though, the girls will generally accept their offer to overtly gyrate their hips on the dance floor, and often will end up sleeping with these tools. The reasons why they do this are two fold:
1)They are drunk to the point of being deaf, blind and mute...we'll call it a Helen Keller drunk (and I’m going to hell!)
2) They make equally appalling clothing choices. Ie...they wear valour sweatpants with sexual innuendoes on the ass...


















They can also be found wearing clothes 3 sizes to small, causing the oh-so-dreadful muffin top...
















I think there are various levels of collar poppers. There are the infrequent poppers who’ll do it just when going to the bar, or various other social outings that require a slight ego-boost. Then there are those that do it daily. These are the ones that’ll sometimes wear 2 coloured polo’s together and upturn BOTH collars. They’ll generally combine a baby blue, and a light green, or a pink and a light yellow, but their absolute favourite combination is the baby blue with the light pink…

















I'm really quite perplexed as to how their collars manage to stay so erect. They must use starch, because it seems to me that any regular cotton polo would just fall over, especially whilst grinding, drinking and engaging in countless gestures of male camaraderie.

So, this all leads me to wonder why people are so intent on popping their collars when the trend clearly died in early 2006…and it wasn’t even cool to begin with. I’ve come to three conclusions:
1)The popped collar provides an exclusive membership to a secret underground society to which us “regular” folk aren’t privy. They hold meetings in caves and discuss the benefits of the popped collar. Then they drink candy apples and reassure their heterosexuality.
2)Upturning the collar protects them from the elements. It’s like a built in scarf. Wind, rain, cold, sun…the lower two inches of their neck will always be protected.
3)And finally, it can be used to cover those regrettable “love bites” from the muffin topped Helen Keller they picked up at the bar the night before.

The trend may never die. But to each their own I guess. In the meantime, if I see you with a popped collar, I will turn it down for you, even if you throw your finger in my face. And before you turn that collar back up again, ask yourself if it’s worth it to have the general populace look at you like you’ve just mugged a pony.















IDIOTS!

Let's move to New York, bootleg whores, and fuck with the stars.

I so desperately want to be a resident of New York. Life would be legendary there. I'd no longer be just Nicole, i'd be NICOLE FROM NEW YORK! I'll wear sharp clothes I can't really afford..













…and I’ll live in a 300 square foot loft in the upper east side.













I'll date a man who wears skinny ties, and always looks suave.

















He’d be Jim Sturgess preferably, but I’m not picky…

I’ll be sophisticated and my friends the same. We’ll go to magazine launch parties, galas and drink champagne. I’ll have picnics in central park with my tall, attractive, skinny tie wearing lover. I’ll wear red lipstick and buy Chanel. Eventually I’ll begin to make money from whatever lucrative career I take up, and I’ll use that money and get a bigger upper east side apartment, and more Chanel. I'll also have this most wonderous library loft...












That, or I’ll move to Brooklyn. I already have a mighty fierce accent so that's no problem. I'll live in a 250 square foot room above a hungarian pastry shop.














Truthfully though it'll be half pastry shop, half illegal prostitution ring. Their slogan will be "SEX and a complimentary STRUDEL!"

Either way I think I’ll be ravenously happy.

"Dude, you forgot your cowboy hat!"

As promised, I give you the top 11 reasons I LOATHE Cowboy’s with a fiery passion (the bar, not the people).

Let’s start this with a story. My friends* 18th birthday. It’s a Thursday night, so it’s 25-cent "draft." Draft referring to a mixture of piss and colt 45 siphoned into a large vat and then offered to patrons in Coors light glasses. Tricksters!

So she’s brought to Cowboys by her obviously unsympathetic friends and the second she got into the bar she became angry and distasteful. Atop the anger, she consumed roughly 15 glasses of “draft” and finally became confrontational which is extremely out of character for her, as she generally despises altercation. Well, that is unless it involves stupid people.

Any ways, my friend ended up stealing a beer from one of the tub girls and saying some rather nasty remarks whilst doing it. She was then literally, and I mean literally, thrown out of the club. She proceeded to yell contentious remarks at all the bouncers…basically she told them all to ‘fuck their mothers.’ Not her best moment.

After this she took a seat out on the curb, alone. She was then told that sitting anywhere, in or around the bar was illegal. Illegal she thought? For one, bouncers are not law enforcers, they’re beefy guys with attitude problems, and the curb isn’t owned by the bar, it’s owned by the city. She then began to yell further profanities at the bouncers hoping to wear away their muscular exteriors, but alas, they just threw her coat in her face and sent her on her way.
**
She was eventually rescued by her friends who attempted to get her back in the bar but the bouncers proved to be sharper than she thought; they looked directly at her friends and said, “this ones not comin’ back ever! ya hear!”

Reasons I hate Cowboy’s: A list
1) They allow… no wait… they suggest that people wear cowboy hats year round.
2) They encourage female patrons to wear the lowest possible tops and the shortest possible skirts, which equals nip-slips and twat exposures.
3) They are certain to target males with shoes that aren't fine Italian leather. I guess runners just don’t cut it for line dancing.
4) They’re racist.
5) They give people draft (*see above)
6) When you open their website (I had to…for research!) an insanely loud country song comes blaring through your speakers and sings “I LOVE THIS BAR.”
7) The website also has a nice note from Paul Vickers: “You are the reason that Cowboys became famous. Because of your commitment, support and unconditional loyalty, you have genuinely become the foundation of Cowboys’ legendary existence.” Legendary existence! Fuck that!
8) Paul Vicker’s is the biggest douche bag to ever live.
9) They have hay…in the bar.
10) Their bouncers are retarded cowboy hat wearing fucks who take more steroids than the average female body builder.
11) And last but not least, they have a sign out front saying, and I quote “the most beautiful girls walk through these doors” – HA! How about you try “the whores lost their way to the crack house and ended up walking through these doors”

*There was really no “friend” per se… It was me. I was the terrible drunk girl who told bouncers to fuck their mothers. I thought I’d wait until the end to mention it so to try and keep a smidgen of credibility.
**Other things happened in the time period between the coat throwing and the friends coming...but to save a shread of dignity, i'm just going to say it DID NOT INVOLVE VOMIT.

William Shatner hates hockey too.

I’m not certain what it is about sports that brings out the douche bag in everyone. I didn’t watch the game last night, nor was I really even aware they were playing a game…the Flames that is. I did however find out they won, and not because I inquired, I was just awoken from my post-work, pre-paper writing nap by people that felt the need to honk directly outside my apartment building. Good thing it was cold out, because it subdued the besotted fans from taking over the streets in their corresponding jerseys, yelling profanities, and showing their genitals. Not to mention the honking. Seriously people, honk once, twice, a few times even… I’ll deal, but don’t park your car outside my apartment and lay on your horn for 5 minutes straight… that’s just annoying. Also, don’t rig your car with some high performance horn that belts out the hockey theme song continuously. (Side note: I’m inclined to think that a hockey theme song does not actually exists, but let’s just pretend for arguments sake.)

Furthermore, why do you need 7 games to decide the winner of a series? How about you just play one game like every other sport on this fucking continent…fine, ok, baseball I think has best of 7…and maybe basketball…but I hate those too…so there! Sports are so self-righteous. 1 game works fine for football, and soccer, why can’t it work for you, hockey, baseball and basketball?? The Superbowl comes down to one game, and it’s significantly more epic than watching 7 games. I can just picture the various affluent, elderly sport league owners sitting around and contemplating how they could milk this sucker dry:

“Let’s make it 7 games not just 1!”
“That’s genius! Then people have to buy tickets to at least 4 games, and that’s another 4 plates of Nachos, and at least another 64 beers they’ll need to consume. Because we all know watching sports is only entertaining whilst inebriated”
“JUST THINK OF THE PROFIT!”

Then there’s the red mile. Could you be any more retarded Calgary? Well you could I guess, you could be Edmonton and make up other shitty coloured miles when you have an even less talented team. I think the whole red mile thing is massive propaganda for the city to try and prove to the country our awesomeness. Meanwhile Vancouver and Toronto just laugh at our boring, ugly face. You can’t claim to be awesome if your team loses and your city is vapid wasteland of oil swindlers and boring people. I’d be surprised if the Flames even make it through this series, but if they do I’ll be sure to devise a plan involving balloons, fowl liquid like substances, and my 13th floor balcony. Watch out belligerent hockey fans…I’ll get you!

On another side note, Cowboy’s is opening again, and it’s far to close to my apartment. It’s just going to add fuel to the already massive fire of douche bags infesting our lands. Though, this might aid in peeling the baby prostitutes away from the repulik, which would be nice. Though, you know, I think I might just get a job at cowboys and anticipate the day when they offer me surgically enhanced cleavage and a gold studded cowboy hat!

Stay tuned for a long list of the reasons why I loathe cowboys with an unwavering passion.

I call this one a short list.

1)In recent weeks I’ve been told that I bear a striking resemblance to both Feist, and Cat Power. One group of men was even questioning asking me whether or not I really was Feist, but alas, I shattered all their hopes and dreams of meeting her when they found out I was just Nicole. Though, I think that people are just confused by my bangs. They’re all “Straight brown hair! Bangs! MUST BE FEIST!” Yes, my hair does look a lot like Feist’s and Cat Power’s hair, but this does not mean we have the same facial structure. So, I give you exhibit A:












I'm on the top left incase you were confused by all our similarities, *coughOURHAIRcough*


2)On my daily venture into the world of celebrity blogs, I found out an interesting little piece of info. Not only will Gossip Girl be making its return with all new episodes…there’s a plot twist!! They are going to be adding a GAY character. I capitalized that only to give it prominence, like AWESOME, or NICOLE! Any ways, I’m not sure what to think about this. Are they going to turn one of the characters gay? Or are they going to bring in a new character and make him gay? See, from my coveted knowledge of all things pre-teen, I discovered that, in the book series they make Dan gay. Now, I love the gays, but really? Dan? Can’t we straight girls be left with some good ones?! Now, I’m a little sceptical because obviously Dawson’s Creek was the first teen melodrama to have a gay character…and a lead character at that, and Jack was so fucking rad, so topping him is going to be a mighty endeavour. Seriously, they were SO ahead of the times. Shit. Anyway, I wikipedia’d “gay characters in teen dramas” and was left with very few. There’s Jack or course, Willow and Tara from Buffy, Marissa from The OC, who, might I add was only gay for like 5 episodes, which culminates to what I’d like to refer to as “the writers trying desperately to make Marissa appear interesting.” They failed. She died. I win. Then they mentioned a character from One Tree Hill who they referred to as “Anna: the bisexual Latina!” I can’t even fathom how awesome she’d be. A bisexual Latina! Though, in my head this “Anna” would look more like this Hispanic transvestite I once saw. But she’s probably still cool, and potentially harbours other Mexican transvestites, and offers them a tranquil existence in Tree Hill.

3)I was trying to come up with a list of men over 50 I’d have “relations” with, and I could only think of 3:
3.Daniel Day Lewis. Why? Well, he’s got a chiselled jaw line and a nice set of peepers.
2.Patrick Swayze. Why? Because “he’s like the wind,” and plus, he totally fucking took baby out of that corner.
1.Jim Cuddy. He’s my number one, because he’ll sing me 5 days in may while we canoodle by lake Ontario, in front of a fire, and there’ll be butterflies and puppies frolicking in the near distance. Magic I tell ya.

Our love is, like, so deep.

I’m not the type of person to wear my heart in my blog…or anywhere for that matter. But there are some people out there that do, and their heart is everywhere; their facebook status, their blog, in your face…it’s like you can’t get rid of it. Their depressing forthright sentiments of lost love and found love makes you want to stick a fork through your eye...no, wait, just maybe forcefully press it with a spoon...i'm not that overdramatic. There’s a time and a place people, and your status ain’t one of those! Seriously, write in a journal, a book, make a movie, those are the places where we should see overdone weepy emotions. Anyways, I’ll stop judging, cause I watch Dawson’s Creek, and that’s got to be a big point of contention.

Anyways, I had a point in all this…actually more of a story. In one of my classes we did this exercise where you just write without stopping or questioning or going back, you just write whatever might pop into your head at that very moment. And it was a neat experiment, I guess try to awaken the unconscious thought…something to that extent. So basically mine ended up being a page long talk about bears, their different colours, and how when I go camping I really just wish that a bear would come and chill with us. He’d be wearing duckies and a matching rain coat and be named Chester.

So I was under the impressions that everyones was probably pretty fucking random…but then, post-experiment people were asked to share their work with the class, and the majority of the class had these grandiose statements about the perplexities of life, or ostentations poetry that they claimed “infused their bones” as they wrote. Now I’m not saying those weren’t good pieces of writing, but seriously, do people really think like that all the time?? Like common, we all debate life a lot, and think about love, and the distresses of being alive, but my mind never uses fluffy poetic rhetoric to convey those emotions. It generally just rants, or has one way satirical arguments. I tried the experiment again, but this time decided to make myself think and write like those people…so this is what happened…

I awoke today safe from the perils of life, from the anxiety of uncertainty and from unscrupulous love. I awake and I am lost. I awake and I am free. I dreamt of you last night, you freed me from my neuroses and drove me to light, you said poor girl you’re tired now, you’re in need of a cure, your distraught heart is overdone, and this is a loud of bullshit….

I can’t do it. I feel creepy, and weird, and that my friends is in no way a reflection of how my mind thinks… and plus, I write like shit that way. Some people can express their calamities through big savoury words, but me, I like it simple. So, basically, through that entire thing my mind was really thinking this:

Man that cottage cheese was good. Creamy and fresh, and in a singular little container; like yogort cottage chese, but not, because there wasn’t yogurt…but cottage cheese. Shit. Whoever invented yogort-contained cottage cheese is probably fairly awesome. Fuck, you know what I realized, I don’t know how to spell yogourt…I think I’ve spelt it 16 different ways already. Damn. I should get on that. I do know how to spell ACTIVA though. So maybe that counts.

I think it boils down to the fact that I suck. OR, that I’m awesome, because I don’t have live with a brain that thinks in haikus all the time.

Porky and Buckwheat.

Things I've recently begun to hate:

1. The republik - why - because it's turned into this whore factory where 12 years old girls get fake ids, dress like baby prostitutes and shriek loudly whilst grinding their cooch on some ugly dudes thigh. Then they produce the boys, most no more than 13, with popped collars, white suit coats, hair gel, and a singular diamond earring. I hate them all. I did however find some entertainment in outwardly mocking them, and turning down their collars, but that was all. It's too bad that the republik took this sad turn, because now the name is completely destroyed and everything it once stood for is abolished into a mess of hair gel, and syphilis. So, to conclude, I’ve made a promise to myself to never step foot in that godforsaken whore house they like to call a bar, for if I’d want my spirit sucked out of me, I’d die.

2. Pompous, pretentious assholes. Yes. I hate them, and their attitude. I guess this isn't a recent discovery, but more of a need to declare it.

Things I've begun to love:

1. HEROES! Claire! Peter Petrelli! HIRO NAKAMURA!
2. The looming prospect of summer! I can't wait for it. I want to quit my job, go to disney world, camp, drink on my balcony, road trip, and maybe even sneak into gated swimming pools after hours.
3. Celery! There’s so much you can do! You can put peanut butter and raisins, or cheese whiz, or just some ranch dip; the possibilities are endless!

Another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults.

Well i've officially seen more of the mayor than anyone should ever see. That's right, the mayor in spandex...not a proud moment. Apparently he's friends with the man that lives in the penthouse of the building I work in. I'm certain they just meet up, sit around in spandex, and make shady deals. Then they jog.

Sasquatch line up comes out on monday. I'm fairly stoked, as the cure are already confirmed, and apparently REM, the national and modest mouse are basically confirmed. God, i love the national. I'm hoping Jose Gonzalez plays as well...I think that would make my summer...it would be just a full set of beautiful, beatiful, soft loving perfection.