Because I really like to complain about life.

You know those days that make you sigh and think, "god, life's really annoying sometimes"? Well, today was one of those days...actually, the last two days have been one of those days.

Let me go back.

This story begins on Wednesday morning. I woke up, severely late, only to discover that I had two incredibly itchy and enormous mosquito bites. I was pretty certain I’d contracted them while at an outdoor work staff meeting/”team building” the day prior, but I had no time to ponder the situation and continued drying my hair.

Part way through the day, as I was sitting at my desk when the itching had become unbearable and I turned to my co-worker and said, “Jesus, I have this mosquito bite that is so fucking itchy!!!” I then proceeded to pull down part of my pants (it’s on my hip) to show her. Alas, the mosquito bite was no longer a bite, but more of a giant tennis ball like mass of bright reddness. Her response, “holy shit! maybe you should take some benadryl or something”
So I did. And then I was stoned. I’m not even kidding you. Not sure how or why it happened, but I went into this daze and was staring into the distance for a good 45 minutes until I finally realized I was utterly stoned and should probably go home, sleep it off and then head to the doctors...

And that’s what I did. But instead of going to the doctors, I slept for 5 hours. Seriously, that benedryl was fucked up! I figured though that I could just put it off and find some time today to go.
WRONG!
Fast forward to this morning. I get to work (late yet again) and am asked to pull up stats from this fucking excel database thing that I have no idea how to even open. My boss indicates to me that it should be my “number one priority” – which basically means, “do it…or else!” So I did it. I put aside lunch AND my daily sudoku for it. Now that’s fucking dedication.
Finally, after I drudged away for a solid 9 hours, I finished this wonderful/potentially inaccurate stats page and decided it was time I see a doctor. With it being way past regular doctor hours, my only option was the urgent care clinic.
After waiting for 2 and a half fucking hours, I finally got let into the back where an insanely good looking male nurse took my blood pressure and then asked me some general questions about allergies and so on, until he nonchalantly posed this little doozy… “when was your last bowel movement?”
I don’t think words can even begin to describe how insanely awkward I became at that very moment. And what was even more awkward was that the hawt male nurse just sat there with this, “seriously woman, are you 5?!” look on his face.
I was humiliated, and all I could think of was that now this beautiful man would never want to sleep with me because he knows when I last pooped.

Finally, after waiting for 3 hours, the doctor came in and told me that I’m probably just having a reaction to a bug bite.
WELL NO SHIT!
He also suggested that I take some benadryl and if that doesn’t help, to come back again.
Ugh... no thank you! I’d rather spiders lay eggs in my wound than be asked about my bowel movements again.

And now I’m here... eating boiled eggs and popcorn for dinner. I had a laughing cow cheese too, but I accidentally sat on it.

Sigh, life.

Old Balls.

As you probably already know, I went to see Blink 182 a little while ago and even though I was initially school-girl excited about the whole experience, it definitely didn’t end up being as stellar as I had originally hoped.

For the weeks leading up to the show, me and my friend would sit on the phone or email whilst at work and talk about how excited we were to re-live all our pre-teen fantasies. Instead, when we actually arrived at the show it just reminded us that we’re old balls. And that going to "punk rock" shows is difficult and exhausting. Especially on a week-night.

The second we got there we realized we’d made a terrible mistake by purchasing floor tickets. Seriously though, who did we think we were!? 16-year-olds with stamina?! No. We don’t like standing, nor do we appreciate being jammed into a massive clusterfuck of perspiring yougins jumping up and down. In the day that might’ve been considered “fun,” but my definition of said word has changed drastically. Now, “fun” is a bag of Hawkins Cheezies and an episode of 30 rock.

Anyways, we decided it would be best to abandon our tickets and see if we could find us some seats so we could comfortably enjoy the show from a safe distance.

The beginning of the night sounded a little like this:

"My back really hurts."
“I'm tired.”
“Work was really stressful today.”
“I don't think I want to be surrounded by sweaty pop punkers that are undoubtedly going to jump up and down for the entire show. I just don't have the stamina like I used to.”
“Me neither.”
“Should we try and find some naive under age fan that is desperately wanting to experience what it's like to be in a mosh pit and then suggest that they pay us an increased ticket price in exchange for their tickets?”
"Yes. Yes we should. Then I can sit and enjoy a malt and watch all the crazy floor people steadily acquire other peoples sweat whilst jumping franticly."
"This plan is excellent."

Luckily, we stumbled upon a couple of innocent looking boys with club seats just dying for their chance to partake in the pop-punk front line action. We suggested that they give us a bit of money for the trade of the tickets, but when they hesitated we figured that a comfortable seat is enough compensation. We handed them over the tickets and watched their small eyes light up with the kind of excitement that only a first-time mosh pit experience can bring.

At that moment I sighed a bit internally and wished that I hadn’t turned into a business-casual-wearing, in-bed-at-9 working woman - but I figure this is just one of those moments in life where you realize that you just need to move on, because some things are only meant to be enjoyed when you’re 16. This is with the exclusion of teen-movies and television dramas. They may be made for 16 year olds, but they are meant to be enjoyed by any age. Don't let anyone tell you differently.

Regardless, the show was still fun; I danced a little in my seat, ate a large vanilla/chocolate swirl malt and judged people. Now that's my idea of a good time!

I'm a horrible, horrible blogger.

I realized that I’ve become completely pathetic when it comes to actually posting, but the truth is, life is just too tiring. I know what you’re thinking, "excuses Nicole, you're full of fucking excuses" - well, yes, this might be true, but I really am exhausted all the time. Ask my friends. I never go out anymore because I have the bed time of an 85 year old woman. If I'm not in bed by my regular time, I can usually be found sitting on my couch, bobbing my head lazily, and often times falling asleep sitting up. It’s really quite pathetic.


So I'll bet you're super curious as to what else is going on in my life?

Ya, i knew it...

Not to burst all your hopes and dreams, but if I’m not sleeping or working I can generally be found sitting on my couch watching 30 rock. Or bitching about working full time and life. I really like to bitch about life. The odd time i'll go outside, but I usually prefer to stay indoors. The sun and heat can become really overwhelming.

But I’ve decided that it’s finally time for me to stop being so lame! I’m going to start doing things! And I figure when I actually leave my house and engage in normal social activities, I’ll begin to have things to write about again! And that means more blogs! So if I’ve not already lost my entire readership, I’m here to let you know that I’m back, and I promise that I will do my very best to marginally entertain you on a semi-regular basis.

I'm breakin' out the studded belt...

A few days ago, as I was sitting on the couch wasting away and watching irrelevant programming, I stumbled across a little piece of news that got me way more excited than I think it should’ve. Here’s how my excitement went…

Much music: “So it looks like Blink-182 are coming to Canada for their reunion tour”
Me: “what! WHAT! OMG! OMG! PLEASE COME TO CALGARY!!!!”
Much music: “They’ll be playing shows in Vancouver, Calgary…”
Me: “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

*pick up phone

Me: “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”
Friend: “What?!”
Me: “BLINK ARE COMING!”
Friend: “WWWWWHAT!!! We are soooo breaking out our studded belts and punk rock girl t-shirts!”

And that’s exactly what I plan on doing. Because yes folks, I have a Blink 182 shirt that says, and I quote, “punk rock girl.” And it’s written in pink. And has a nautical star.
















Sometimes I wonder how I have friends…

That’s not the point though. I’m flippin excited! The last time I saw them was, like, the 3rd best day of my adolescent life.

I have a story, and it’s filled with drug abuse, lost teeth, and titties.

A couple weekends ago, Julia and I went to Fernie for a night to snowboard, drink and, well…that’s all. We ended up meeting a group of engineers there that were occupying at least 8 rooms to either side of ours. They gave us free beer, and although it was PBR, we forgave them for their incessant ruckus. Our new friends decided to take a journey into the town of Fernie and hit up one of the local bars. I was a bit sceptical at first, but I’m now so glad that I decided to take that journey because at that bar I met the most ridiculous woman ever.

Her name was Sharon. She was probably in her mid-30s and she loved, loved, LOVED to flash her titties about. This is actually how we met Sharon. I’m not really sure how it all came to be, but all I remember hearing was, “OH SHIT, she just flashed us!” For some reason Sharon ended up sitting at our table and I knew right then that she was the type of person great episodes of intervention were made of.

















“My name is Sharon. S-H-A-R-O-N. And I’m an addict.”


I then became so infatuated with getting to know what Sharon was all about that I risked my safety and hygiene to do so.

Me: “Are you from Fernie, Sharon?”
Sharon: “Can I tell you ssssomething? I had to get away. I had to get away from all the dope, so now I’m here and I’m fucking working at boston pizza. SssssHhhh! Don’t tell anyone! And I use to live in the motel, but fucking tonight, I’m just going to sleep in a bush!”

She also pulled out the classic addicts line, “this is the first time I’ve been fucked up in months, is that too much to ask?! To get drunk just this once?!”

Right Sharon. Stop kidding yourself; you’ve been drunk since birth.

This was it. Sharon was going to be the story of the fucking night and I knew it. It was one of those, “this is SO going in my blog!” moments… which meant I had to find out more. Luckily, she thought I was “sincere and beautiful” so she freely disclosed the depths of her personal struggles to me. She told me about where she grew up, her time on the streets, her time in jail, and her gang involvement. She was a goddamn train wreck and I was front and fucking centre to watch the show. After unveiling all her deepest secrets and then trying desperately to kiss me, she moved forward over my lap and this is when it happened…the climax of the story…HER FUCKING TOOTH FELL OUT. And can you guess where it landed. That’s right! ON MY FUCKING LAP! I didn’t really get what was going on, but in the haze I looked up at Sharon with one tooth missing and she chuckled, picked up her fallen tooth and exclaimed, “HARHAR! My tooth fell OUT!” She then proceeded to jam it back it to her gums like nothing ever happened.

Fucking brilliant.

After the tooth incident, things proceeded to go downhill for Sharon… but uphill for my entertainment. She thought it necessary to open her top and flash her boobs yet again. (Below is a brilliant photo taken RIGHT after she exposed herself.)














This time, however, she wasn’t so discrete. The bouncer of the bar came over in a fiery rage and told her she was kicked out. This did not please Sharon. She started yelling and then threw up her leg in a rage, stating to me that she was going to “round house kick this fucker to the face.”

Man, I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

The bouncer tried everything to get her to leave but she was a crazy, angry bitch that just wouldn’t give in. Sharon was right pissed by this time and you could see her prison learnt anger building. She asked me if she looked like she was controlling her anger well. Clearly she wasn’t, but to avoid getting round house kicked in the face by a meth addict, I suggested to her that that she was definitely controlling it, and quite well in fact.

After about 8 minutes of this back and forth unbearable tension, Sharon finally left the bar.

Later that night I stopped the bouncer and asked him what had happened to the beloved Sharon, and with an obvious disgust he proclaimed, “I sent her to jail!”

Poor Sharon. The cycle continues. And even though she probably doesn’t remember a thing from that night, I do, and I plan on holding it with me forever. But really, how often can you say that a meth addict lost her rotting tooth in your lap???

Yea, that’s what I thought.

Congrats on the nuptials

So you all probably know by now that I have a serious girl crush on Mandy Moore. Don’t ask me why, because I can give you no definitive answer. I just think she’s awesome. So it came to my attention while reading Jezebel the other day that she got married! And to whom you’re wondering?

RYAN FUCKING ADAMS!

Man! She’s just the luckiest bitch in the whole world! I’ll bet he sings her his pretty acoustic version of Wonderwall all the time.

Sigh.

Where’s my Ryan Adams?


















As a sidenote. I LOVE that she's taller than him. Even with flats on!

Managing your disappointment and surviving the post-graduate blues.

So I’m thinking I should probably write a self-help book. I had an idea for one a couple years ago, but I never really went through with it. It was intended to be more of a pessimistic view to life. For example, my first helpful tip was going to be “expect nothing out of situations and you’ll never be disappointed!” Sure, it sounds horribly depressing, but trust me, it’s not! Lets look at a couple examples.

For one: first dates. If you go into a first date expecting absolutely noting out of it, then even if it’s just moderately fun, you won’t be disappointed. Now, if you expect for it to go really well and are really optimistic about it, and it turns out to be, once again, only moderately fun, well, then you’re going to be really disappointed.

Another example: job interviews. You can’t go in expecting you’re going to get the job because then if you don’t you’re going to be, I repeat, disappointed! (Are we seeing a trend here?) Rather, if you go in expecting nothing, you’ll walk away unaffected. Now, I’m not telling you to expect the worst out of situations...I’m merely suggesting that you learn to expect nothing.

Obviously this is not a helpful tip for the majority of people who are “glass half full” type folk. But for people like me, who like to avoid the perils of disappointment, it’s a rule I try to live by.

But this is not what this post was destined to be about.

I decided yesterday I’d write a self-help book for lost university graduates. I even researched on Amazon to see if there were already a lot of these books, but to my surprise, it appears as though all the self-help books directed at my peer group are about how to succeed fiscally post-convocation. None of them were about how to deal with the sheer boredom you face without term papers and classes, or about just how lost you feel in the real world.

Though, I’m thinking I’m going to have to get myself through these post-graduate blues before I start throwing out advice to other sore losers. Though! I'm on the right track because come April 6th, I'm going to be officially employed at a 9 to 5 job, business casual clothes and all!

Though, if I started writing the book right now, chapter one would be still be something along the lines of:

“Save yourself the grief and disappointment…JUST FUCKING STAY IN SCHOOL!”

Nick fucking Carter is back.

Now lets get a few things straight here. I use to love the Backstreet Boys. Nay, I still love the Backstreet Boys. Nothing warms my heart more than “As Long As You Love Me” – and nothing makes me want bust out some rhymes like “Get Down” – we’re talking about serious classics here people! Nick, AJ, Brian, Howie, and regrettably Kevin, made songs that will forever be the soundtrack to my preteen years. Ah, what a beautiful time that was. Actually, it wasn’t. I was tall, lanky, and dare I say, a bit ugly. Thank god I grew out of that*!

*What I bet you’re now thinking: NO YOU DIDN’T! You’re still ugly! Hahahahah.

There, now you don’t have to think of that clever insult yourself. Look at me, such a fucking Samaritan.

Ok, back to Nick. So times were rough for BSB after the wonderful 90s left their side. They had to resort to having families or trying for solo careers. Nick decided on the latter, though he should have really just started performing on broadway (I hear that’s what all the washed up pop idols are doing these days). But apparently Nick just turned into a drug addict. Oh! What’s that? You didn’t know he was an addict?! Well neither did I, until I stumbled across this little video of him on Ellen:



Oh, and here's a better look at that nice little picture of him in People:











Like what the fuck Nick Carter? Where did those abs come from good sir? Maybe you’d like me to rub some oil on them??

ANYWAYS!

He’s always been the one that was on the verge of being fat, but now he’s kind of hot, and ripped, and I hate myself for having to say that. But really, HE WAS NEVER AN ADDICT! Sure, Aaron Carter was addicted to meth, but in all that time I never once heard that Nick was any kind of addict.

I’m calling a publicity stunt. He got hot and now he needs to play the sympathy card so he’s going to throw out this sad moronic story about his no good parents feeding him beer when he was two. Yea right Nick, you’re such a liar.

Just you wait. Give him 6 months and he’ll have a solo career, a clothing line, and a cameo on Extreme Makeover: Home Addition. Then he’ll yap non-stop about his fucking fake addiction and how it changed his life.

Puke.

What? Another post about your lack of career...

You know what would really spice up my life and my blogs…a really interesting job. Now I’m not talking about being an events planner for Alberta Arts or anything, because albeit that would be an interesting job for me, it wouldn’t be one that conjured stories. I want a job where ridiculous shit happens. Stories so good that when you come home from work and your darling significant other asks you how your day was, you can reply with some fascinating tale about incest and adultery instead of replying with the same old...

“well, omg, Sue was being such a whore today! I asked her to staple these timesheet documents and you know what she said to me... No! SHE SAID NO! WHAT A WHORE!”

But say you didn’t work as a receptionist and you worked instead as a counsellor at a high security prison, or a nurse at an insane asylum. You know how many amazing stories you’d have about people hurling fecal matter, or lunatics thinking they’re the saviour?? The answer is many… you’d have many.

The best part is... people actually want to hear those stories! People really like hearing about fucked up shit. Well, I like hearing about fucked up shit, so I’m assuming that everyone else does too. But really, we wouldn't have the news or 20/20 if people didn’t! People don’t care about Don the accountant that eats too many Snickers and smells potently like steak. They care about the crazy woman that's in love with a fence*, or the dude that killed his whole family while high on meth.

*Actually, there is a woman out there in love with a fence. My friend showed me this documentary the other day called “Married to the Eiffel Tower”, and it was about objectum sexuals which are people who fall in love with objects and have sexual and romantic relationships with them. No, seriously, I’m not even shitting you. This one woman was in love with the Eiffel tower, the Berlin wall, a fence and the golden gate bridge (clearly she’s a polygamist). It was seriously fucked up shit. Seriously.

If you feeling like spending 40 minutes being shocked and insanely disturbed then definitely watch it (the link is below). But I’m warning you: it’s highly unsettling; so don’t yell at me after you’ve watched it and been creeped out beyond all repair.

Seriously messed up shit. Part One.

I love cutting Barbie's hair off and making her a man.

This underemployed deal sucks. I thought that I’d be able to make the most of it and take my time to write my novella or make a film or read a few books, but instead I’ve used my time to watch an unnecessary amount of Felicity and bake… oh god do I ever bake. And then what do I do? I sit down and eat my calorie saturated creations. Which means I’m officially sad. I sit at home eating baked goods and watching 90s dramas about college life. If I keep this up I’m not only going to be a bored underemployed graduate, but I’ll be fat.

Maybe it all just comes down to the fact that I’m incredibly lazy. Most people would take this time and I don’t know, run a marathon or reorganize their house or volunteer, but I use my time to lament about my lack of career, my useless degree and my strange desire to overwork my oven. Seriously though, I’m even too lazy to post regularly on my blog!

And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m applying for jobs. I’m even applying for receptionist positions, which after working as a receptionist for a summer, I vowed to myself to never sink that low again. I really don’t want to be hired to be the bimbo at the front desk who wears a headset and answers the phone in a chipper, high pitched, “GOOD MORNING! (insert lame company name here). HOW MAY I DIRECT YOUR CALL?...(pause)...ONE MOMENT PLEASE!!!"

God. I'm going to end up turning into one of these hussies...









"Look at my fantastic computer skills and the ficus behind me! It's also my job to water it! I'm so blessed in my career. Receptionist work is real rewarding!"











"CALL ME! hehe! Not only am I marginally competant at answering the phone, but I've been know to fellate to get ahead! No pun intended! heheheheh!"

**************

God help me.
(And by God help me I mean... God, find me a job!)