I'll call this one a picture blog.

Picture one.
















I remember looking at this photo and thinking, “MY GOD Katie Holmes is a giant!!” Then I sulked around because I realized that I too feel her giantess pains. I think she just looks so gargantuan because she’s beside Tom Cruise, and well, he’s an asshole.

I hope I can find a suitable bachelor that’s over 5’11, because that way random people on the street won’t think I’m dating my younger brother.

Picture numero two













I laughed for a god 16 seconds when I saw this picture. Then I read the caption, which was for the MTV reality show 'true life', and that episode was about people who stutter. This woman has a stutter, and I, my friends, am an awful human being.

Picture Three





















This isn't a picture so much as it is a book. I discovered it recently and wondered who might benefit from a book like this? Is it a children’s book? Do they want to teach children that bodily functions are a normal part of existence, and that we should not fear the poop? Then I thought, maybe this book is for people like myself, who can’t fathom the notion that celebrities poop. It's hard to entertain the idea, you know? I get this picture of Brad Pitt taking a crap and it’s highly unsettling. Though, the thought of anyone pooping is kinda gross.


Picture Four















Peter Patrelli would be an amazing boyfriend. He could fly me places! And he’d never die! And he could time travel! Though, last season he did abandon that marginally attractive Irish girl in the future. I can overlook that though.

I'm a Vampire (though this blog has nothing to do with that)

Do loud breathers know they’re breathing loud? There’s this dude that sits next to me in class sometimes who breathes like a freaking snow blower. Either he’s got inhumanly small nostrils, or it’s booger city up there. I think he should just consider breathing through his mouth from now on.

On a completely unrelated note...I’m really bored. For some reason when you have an extraordinary summer, and return to the sullen and pitiful urban landscape we like to call Calgary, everything seems really boring. And lame. And you spend your nights eating tiny Halloween chocolates, watching Party of 5, and thinking about how you can really relate to the characters. Sometimes you leave the house only to discover that your distaste for the city and its people is still there, and then you run back inside your apartment and begin reading one of the 3 novels you have on the go. That’s right, 3! They’re all collections of work, like essays, or short stories, so none really have a narrative sequence that needs your constant attention. What was I talking about? Oh, right, boredom. So yeah, my life is fairly boring right now. I’m thinking though that this is just one of those recessions in life...much like in economics. You can’t always be in a period of boom and prosperity; sometimes you have to recess. Is it boom and recession? No, it’s boom and bust right? But there’s gotta be another word for boom...?

Maybe I’ll write a self help book, something like “The booms and busts of life: understanding the rough times using simple economics.” It’s destined to be a best seller.

ANYWAYS. I thought I’d tell a story about a simpler time. I was talking to a certain friend today, and he reminded me of all the crazy shit I did as a teen. That’s right, I was once a rebellious, no-holds-barred, unruly teenage. My friend’s mom use to say we were “rebels without a clue.” You know, instead of “rebels without a cause.” – right – anyways, she was completely accurate; we were without a fucking clue. One night, after watching a lot of CKY and jackass, we decided it would be a great idea to play “fire in the hole.” Now the object of the game is to order a “litre of cola” at your local McDonalds drive thru and then upon receiving said “litre of cola” you throw it back in the window and then drive away…not too abruptly though, you need to ensure you see the pain on the face of the drive-thru worker. Oh, and you also have to scream, “FIRE IN THE HOLE” whilst chucking the cola through the window.

I always felt really bad, and was never the one to do the actual throwing, because I just knew that woman in the McDonalds window was working minimum wage just to put food on the table for her infant son, who had alzheimer's and whose father was wrongly convicted for stealing a television and is now serving 10 years in prison. We only managed to successfully do it once, and we watched in slow motion as the extra large coke flew through the window, and the small acne ridden worker looked down at the cup and then up at us with a look of sheer horror, and dismay, and probably thought “NO GOD! WHY! THAT LIMITED EDITION POKEMON JUST ISN’T WORTH THIS GRIEF!” We laughed for a good few days about it, but deep down we were all ridden with guilt. We never admitted it though, because, well, we were way too friggin cool for that shit.

Whatever, like, you know?

I’m in a blog frenzy these last few days…apparently I’ve got a lot to say. Actually, it’s more that I hate doing actual work, so instead I just write a bunch of gobbledygook (what a flipping fantastic word!), and then post it for you to read. Oh, beloved readers, you make the sun shine brighter... all 4 of you!

I was on myspace the other day, and I know what you’re thinking, “myspace is totally 2 years ago, you weirdo!” And yeah, sure, maybe it is, but sometimes I like to check it. One day someone’s going to send me a message on myspace telling me how cool and awesome I am, and then if I don’t log on, I’ll never see it, and we’ll never be friends, and that would be a right friggen tragedy.

So while I was on myspace, I found a survey, and thought to myself, “god, surveys are, like, so 2 years ago…I’m, like, totally going to do one!” – you see, being on myspace MADE me talk like that.

So I stole the survey, and then got really fed up with all the lame balls questions, so I deleted most of them and just kept a few that I actually wanted to answer.

1. How do you feel about the person who texted you last?

It was jeff. I feel great things for Jeff.

2. How's your heart lately?

It’s beating quite nicely. No murmurs to report. If I were Mandy Moore in Chasing Liberty though, i'd have to say "it's a little bit broken" and then make this "i'm so cute and tragic face"

3. Where is your phone?

You mean where is my blackberry? God, freaking simple-minded cell phone users! You’re all no-good bags of trash!

4. Do you like country music?

3 words: Garth. Fucking. Brooks.

5. Are looks important?

Attraction is all relative. You know, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But there of course has to be a physical attraction or you’ve got nothing more than some ugly dude sitting in front of you.

6. Have you ever had someone sing to you?

Yes! I have actually. It was really cute and I just remembered about it right now. And, no, it wasn’t Taylor Hanson...but he did look deep and longingly into my eyes while he was singing, “mmmbop, dippadopppadooooboppp.” It was a beautiful moment in our blossoming relationship.

7. Do you believe in love?

Pshh, love’s overrated, just like Burger King and The Arcade Fire.

8. Will you get married?

I don’t know, why the hell don’t you tell me you lousy survey? Will I? Will I pop out some pesky rat children right after? Huh? You think I have all the damn answers! No! I don’t! And so what if I’m a spinster for the rest of my days??! Huh survey? What’s wrong with that?!!

7. Are you happy with yourself?

I’m awesome, why wouldn’t I be.

8. Who's the funniest drunk person you know?

Who wrote this survey? Seriously! Jump off a 3rd floor balcony!

9. When was your last encounter with the police?

Who's asking?! I’ve had a few actually. Why don’t I tell you about one. One time, in high school, after having a toga party, we took a venture on over to the local watering hole (swimming pool) where we were going to sneak in for a late night dip. On the way there, in a drunken mess of a state, my friend and I decided to moon this mini van. Funny, I know. Turns out said mini van was an off duty cop. He pulled over and yelled a bit, and showed us his badge, and then drove off. We then proceeded to illegally sneak into the public pool. I was some kind of awesome back then.

10. Do you regret some things you've done in 2008?

I figure, why regret anything? What you do makes you who you are, right? It’s stupid to dwell on things that you can never change. Just embrace them. One day you’ll look back at it and laugh... or cry... you know, whatever.

11. What did you want to be when you were a kid?

I wanted to be a few things. I first wanted to be Elizabeth Manly.





















She was so awesome, but my mom told me I was too tall to be a figure skater. Sad, I know. Then I wanted to be a doctor. That dream was really short lived. And now, I want to be a retiree, and live the sweet life eating fig newtons in my 1986 Chieftain 26' Winnebago...

Straight out of the recycle bin

After reading the adbusters article about hipsters, I had this immediate urge to write a response. I thought the article was true and hilarious, but the ending was pretty retarded. I figured I might as well post it, my response that is, because I’d just end up deleting it from my computer, and well, that’s no fun. There may be no logical insight to the whole thing, but I’m not too worried...read it if you please...

Hipsters just need to grow up and admit that they are in fact part of a group. So to get the ball rolling…MY NAME IS NICOLE, AND I, REGRETTABLY, MIGHT BE A HIPSTER. (except – I don’t think I’m doing anything really unique…I like to say that I like what I like because I just like it. Or maybe subliminally I think I should like this stuff so I’m always on the cusp of coolness. Clearly… I have no fucking clue.)

I guess it’s really going to come down to what the hipster will do for society? Are they going to be a self-denying subculture that vanishes in a few years with only a cloud of American Apparel cotton left in its wake? Or, will we fondly remember the hipsters as the group that made strides to progress our cultures ultimate coolness? Most other movements and subcultures are fondly remebered for inspiring, creating, and moving civilization along. The beats had the drugs and the literature; the hippies had the freedom, the protests, the love and the drugs; and the punks, well, the punks had their rebellion. Even grunge had its thing: uncleanliness.

I’m not sure that I believe that the hipster culture is going to be the cause of societal failure. Hipsters might not be advancing civilization, but who really is these days? Western civilization was already doomed, hipsters or no hipsters. We’re a culture of apathy, egocentrism and oblivion; we do nothing, we say nothing, and therefore, we really know nothing. We aren’t failing at the hands of wannabe artists and DJ’s adorned in thick rimmed glasses; we’re all failures. I get that we need a movement from a counterculture to try and shake the pot and change our ways, but hipsters just won’t be that group. We should just leave them to ride their fixed gear bikes, paint their art, and dance their dance.

I'm the queen of guilty pleasures...

I went to see Hanson.

Yes, the 90’s brother band that resembled girls is back, and back with a vengeance. They came here a few nights ago and it was pure magic. I got to relive all my childhood fantasies. Listening to mmmbop live was like eating buttered corn in a field made of daisies.

I spent a lot of my youth denying the fact that I liked Hanson because, well, it was largely uncool. But now, I'm not really prone to caring too much about what's cool and what's not. I like Hanson, and specifically, Taylor Hanson. He’s one fine specimen of a human being. It makes me swoon when he plays the grand piano with his supple skin and his golden locks tossing about.

What an effing dreamboat.


















He’s mormon though, and has 4 kids and a wife. It’s a damn shame.

To whore or not to whore...

I was thinking about becoming a whore to the consumer world and completely selling myself out via my blog (I'm broke!). I’ve got to test the waters first just to make sure the whoring out market is right for me. My first client is Jeff. He’s not paying me anything, as of yet, but for right now I’m going to do it out of the goodness of my heart. He doesn’t have any products to sell, so I’m just going to have to sell him. So here’s to you JEFFY!

Why YOU should pick up your very own Jeff!

Jeff is awesome.
He likes Star Wars.
He has dreams of ponies and unicorns dancing together in jungles made of lollipops.
He always informs me that if he were born a girl he’d want to be just like me*. How sweet is that?
Jeff is a sweet boy.
Sometimes he drops his ice cream and cries jelly bean tears.
He likes pina colada’s and getting caught in the rain.
Jeff comes in 1 size….5’7 and ½.
Oh, and he really likes to read.

*He’s never actually said that specifically, but I just know that he’s thinking it! Am I right, or am I right?

If you, or anyone you know needs some promotion, contact me. I’m available to sell-out any day of the week.

This just isn't going to work out.

Summer’s almost over, and you can’t even believe how unhappy this makes me. I start school again on Tuesday, and that not only saddens me, but terrifies me, because in a mere 4 months, I will be what is know as a “graduate.” Eww! This is the point in your life when people start saying shit like “welcome to the real world” or “what are you going to do now that you’re in the real world.” You know what, screw you! AND your real world!

Anyways...A little while ago I was talking with my sister on the phone, and she was trying to tell me that I use far too many swear words in my blog. I told her that they were just there for emphasis, and not to make me sound like a potty mouth. You know, like instead of just saying “he was a douche bag” you say “he was a fucking douche bag” – it makes the individual sound that much more foul. Now, my sister is very much one of those “optimistic” “glass half full” “let’s be positive about things” type of person, so she suggested that I write an optimistic blog about things that I actually like, instead of constantly talking about shit…I mean…stuff I hate. So this one’s for my sister. And if it sucks balls...I mean...if it disappoints you, blame her and her awesome attitude!

After staring at the computer screen for a short while, and forcing myself to not write about the douche bags at the Oasis concert, I’ve decided to just write down a list of some things that I actually like...some I might even dare say I love. This is just to prove that I actually have positive feelings toward things, and people. But after this, I’m back to my regularly scheduled societal bashing.

Item #1

Pictures of pretty houses. Apartments that make you want to become all artsy and hipster and “escape to Paris and fall in love.” That phrase would never come out of my mouth though, because I hate Paris. Oh man...this whole optimistic thing is already proving to be challenging. Anyways. I like homes with chandeliers. Oh, and cute bikes...



















Item #2

Sex and the City. I’ve decided to devote much of my spare time to watching the entire series. It’s pretty much amazing. And, because everyone always likes to decide which character they most resemble…I’m Miranda…bitter and sarcastic, yet still funny, compassionate, and intelligent. We both also have long necks.











Item #3

Bread. My logic is fairly simple: carbs = love.

Item #4

Cute couples...


















Especially if they are over 70...












Item #5

Cute boys with nice beards.




I used the word “cute” far too much. I resent myself for that. I guess I’m still a girl though, and that gives me some kind of genetic urge to use awful words like “cute” “adorable” and “oh my goodness!"

Well, clearly I like more than 5 things. I like dogs too, and sushi, and my apartment, and orange juice, and notebooks, and mushrooms, and black and white movies...you know...but this isn’t a facebook profile...I was just trying to show you that I’m not just a crazy cynic... I like shit too.

FITY FOR A TEABAG!

This is a tale of male strippers, and it comes with a warning... If you dislike talk of penis, teabagging, and/or strippers, this blog is sure to offend you.

One fine night in Montreal, me and a few friends decided it would be funny to check out the male strippers in the local gay village. Now, I’ve seen male “dancers” before - you know - the ones that appear at the “ladies nights” and all they do is dance seductively, take off their shirts, and then rub their “pecks” down with some oil? These "dancers" never actually get naked, they just prance around in their tighty whities and make all the girls crazy. The point is they aren’t actually strippers. The strippers in Montreal actually get naked…and I mean, balls out naked.

The second we stepped into the bar we knew we’d entered an alternate universe where the men were now the objectified lifeless crack addicted whores, and the women were psycho sex fiends.

We sat at the back and took it all in. Before I went, I was told by a number of people who’d previously gone that all the strippers were actually really hot, but I have to say that I disagree. This is probably because I don’t find really built douche bags to be particularly good looking. Actually, I find them fairly unattractive. I can guarantee if I’d seen any of those men randomly walking down the street, I wouldn’t look twice... Or, I’d look twice, laugh, and think, “Shit, another idiot with a popped collar and a faux hawk.”

Anywho! Then they got naked! The part everyone has been waiting for! I have to tell you, I saw far too much flaccid penis for one lifetime. Some of the men just couldn’t get it up, and then danced around while their penis just hung limp, like a sad, sad puppy. I felt kind of sorry for those flaccid men...I’m not really sure why. Now, it’s not that I’m against the penis, but really, men shouldn’t be leaping around and dancing with no clothes on...it’s simply just not attractive.

There were the guys though that could get theirs up, and they got all the ladies. And these ladies were friggen lunatics! They’d put their 20-dollar bill in their mouth and lie down on the stage and let the gross naked stripper rub his balls all over her face. One stripper even took this chick, flipped her upside down, and stuck her face in his junk, presumably tea-bagging her. She probably had a fity in her mouth.

It was all very, very disturbing. And not to mention, the strippers looked like zombies on far to much cocaine. The way they danced was in no way attractive, and they were clearly dead inside, like most strippers I guess. I kind of wanted to put their clothes back on them, take them for a nice warm coffee, and tell them that they are better than this, and that someone, someday, somewhere, will love them.

There was this moment during the night where I had to go to the washroom. It was horrifying. I was holding my purse firmly with two hands, much like an old woman would when walking through a heard of fifteen year olds. On my way to the washroom, because I was concentrating more on hugging my bag then looking forward, I ran right into one of the strippers. Like, my forehead rammed into his enormous pecks, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He proceeded to give me this creepy look and then rubbed my back…I quickly lowered my head, let out a yelp and ran towards the washroom. On my quest to find the washroom I stumbled across the “secret rooms” where the women get their private dances from the strippers. That, or they just go into the room and pay 15 bucks to get tea-bagged. I’m going to conclude that’s what actually goes on.

To finish the night we ate some poutine. Mine had hot dogs in it. I’m only now realizing how gross that might appear...on all levels.

So, in closing, I’ve decided to use a timeless, tired, and overused cliché to create a new slogan for the male strip club:

Cover: 5 dollars
Cost of a single beer: $6.50
Seeing lunatic women get teabagged by male strippers: priceless

dolla dolla billzzz y'all.

Dear readers, friends and confidants,

I’m sorry for my absence. I’ve been in Montreal for the last 5 weeks, and I drank too many 40s. You might be asking yourself, “what does 40 drinking have to do with actually writing in your blog? Were you drunk all the time, you goddamn alcoholic!?” Well, no, I wasn’t drunk all the time, but I did loose a number of brain cells. It’s simple really; a litre and a bit of beer priced at a mere 4.67 can really affect your intelligence. It still hasn’t fully recovered. My intelligence that is. I probably should have said, “I haven’t fully recovered’, but that would've been far too grammatically correct, and right now, that’s not in my cards.

So, for now, I’ll give you this article I wrote about the reasons I hate the stampede…which isn’t a surprise, seeing as I hate everything and everyone… No! just joking! I like you!

http://www.glossmag.ca/issues/11/socialite/1-calgary-stampede.html

I’m going to stop writing now because I’m pretty certain I’m coming across as 6 year old with a speech impediment. Please check back in a while. I have many interesting stories to tell.

Sincerely yours,
Nicole

fourmis! partout!!

Oh dorm living. It’s one of those things that you never really understand until you actually get to experience it. Going from a 680 square foot comfortable apartment, to a 100 square foot room has its disadvantages. First there’s the bed. As a taller female, I often have trouble finding places to sleep that actually fit me. I grew out of my twin size bed when I was about 8, but my parents didn’t believe me and made me sleep in it until I was 14 or so. It sucked. I’d actually forgot how much I hate twin size beds until I’ve recently been forced to again sleep in one. The ones here though are extra awful because they’re essentially a piece of foam covered in a thick plastic. I’ve nearly fallen off the thing a hundred times, but luckily I wake up right in time when I realize how close I am to landing in a pile of dead ants.

This brings me to the ants. For some reason, I’m the only person on my whole fucking floor who has an ant infestation. In order to try and kill off my guests, I’ve created what I like to call “The ant trap hell death gel fence.” I presume they’re living in the walls because when I first got here there were none, but then I dropped a piece of my granola bar, and didn’t think much of it and when I woke up one morning it was covered in ants! I immediately went out and purchased two forms of ant killer; a liquid gel like substance that you just squirt all over the ant colony, and then these little house things that lure the ants in because they think its food, and then eventually they find out it’s poison and they yell “RAID” and die. Kind of like in Mean Girls when the teacher is all, “don’t have sex because you’ll get pregnant and DIE.” Actually, it’s not like that at all, but I really like that line in the movie, so I had to throw it in somehow. ANYWAYS… I decided to put two of the house things down, and then I barred off the area with an insane amount gel killer to make a fence like device. And now I have this….

(blogger decided to hate me today, and that's why you're not looking at a picture of dead ants. Use your imagination. And if you don't have one, look on facebook. And if you're not my friend on facebook, then how the heck did you find my blog? If you like it though, please message me, i'd love to hear from you. especially if you're a straight male. I don't have many heterosexual male readers.)


Even with the bugs, the communal showers, and the eau de fecal matter, dorm living is pretty fun. It’s unusual to me to have neighbours that actually want to talk to you. At home, my neighbours and I try very hard to avoid each other. Mostly we communicate via mat stealing.

Other than dorm life, Montreal is fucking amazing! I'd love to give you a day by day recount of all the awesome things I do, but that would just make you jealous, and then you'd hate me, and because you're reading my blog, I like you, and I don't want our relationship to be burdened by your persistent jealousy. So i'll just tell you that sometimes I’ll be out drinking and having a great time and think to myself, “shit, I’m totally getting paid to be here. Dope!” Even though I don’t fit in my twin size bed, I sleep easy at night knowing that in a week I’m going to get another 325 dollars to use towards eating and drinking 40s… and all I have to do in return is learn me some French. C’est fucking fantastique.