RAID THA FRIDGE.: BACK IN THE USA WITH CALIFORNIA ON MY MIND.

Blender magazine calls The Hills, “90210 for the Facebook set”, in the Heidi Montag piece that gets boring faster than you can say Spencer blows.

Sometimes people tell me I look like Felicity. The first time was in the year two-thousand. The last time was a few days ago.

Honestly, I don't see the resemblance in the least but I suppose there are worse things than being compared to infamous erotic sensations.

But I guess I might bear some resemblance to this girl who CHANGED HER UNIVERSITY PLANS FOR A BOY SHE SPOKE TO ONCE IN HIGH SCHOOL. I saw her on the metro yesterday. Man, is she crazy...

I'd rather be compared to that naked broad on the leather couch.

One thing's for sure. I am head over heels for Ben from that WB show where he played that guy who got followed to NYC by some creepy girl he spoke to ONCE in high school.

There is a little somethingsomething about boys in plaid shirts that really just makes me lose my common sense in favour of a little somethingsomething...my sister Hilary thinks so too.

Scott Speedman is in my MY5. And I don't have a cell phone so that means 5 strangers I'd like to rock the boat with before I die.

Hova might be a business but this guy's a MAN, man. I'd trade a month's worth of free unlimited TXT MSGing for 7 minutes in the closet with Scott Speedman.

ABOUT the WB...

Ohhhhh, maybe they meant Keri RUSSELL! From the WB show Felicity!

But I have curlier hair and a smaller rack. That doesn't change the fact that Scott Speedman should never wear a stupid red hat ever again, ever.

He could take it easy on the jean jacket too but who am I, the fashion police? Only in my dreams…

Hmmm...BRANDHOR. Sounds German, right?

WEIRD because it LOOKS JAPANIMATIONIZED. As all good things do, right?? It's Japanimation meets Lord of the Rings and then they go and run into Paris Hilton at Heidi Klum’s annual Halloween party and Chaka Khan starts singing about fate and all is right with the world.

SING IT, GIRL! You TELL'EM Chaka!

Overall, Scott Speedman is a really cool guy, see look, cool guy.

He like, lives on Coloniale at Napoleon and those fuckers are artists from the Mile-End! She's the muse, at the very least.

What I was getting at before, is that I like boring things. This old thing always starts with one thought and then I forget all about it when I go off on 10 000 tangents...what I was GETTING at was that it must be hard to be constantly associated with something you're so totally over and done with.

Not that I'm over the WB. I'm not. I LOVE THE WB. And I still don't really get why they ended Dawson's Creek because by the 9th season or whatever, it was getting really gripping.

I HAD A POINT. I'm embarassed to say, but not THAT embarassed because I think it's funny...I'm embarassed to SAY that sometimes, when people say "You look like FELICITY!"

…

In my head I scream back something like "I HAVE A NAME! IT'S KERI RUSSELL! I DID THIS REALLY CUTE MOVIE CALLED WAITRESS THAT WAS CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU PEOPLE?!?!"

And then I realize that that's silly because my name is Nicola and I am a TERRIBLE waitress.

Which sounds like the beginning of a 12 step process.

So the owner of the Greek restaurant at Hotel-de-Ville on Prince Arthur, you know, the one with the PROMINENT SEASONAL DECORATIONS for EACH AND EVERY SEASON such as the season of OH MY GOD IT'S MONDAY LET'S DECORATE WITH GIANT TEDDY BEARS!

Well the owner of THAT PLACE...his name is George, and I know that because he wrote it on the inside of a pack of matches for me once...it's probably still on the shiny silver tray on my coffee table, you know, the one I use for blow at cocktail parties? My dad picked it up once when he was here and then put it back down nonchalantly, probably trying to forget that I'm the kind of girl who collects matchbooks with phone numbers from strange old men.

Well George calls me Felicity to this day. As though it is my real name. I met George, funnily enough, when I was WAITRESSING LIKE KERI RUSSELL IN THAT MOVIE at the Iraqi-Syrian restaurant that used to be next door to the Greek Restaurant at Hotel-de-Ville on Prince Arthur, you know, the one with the prominent seasonal decorations.

George is kind, animated and very amusing and he's actually less than twenty years older than me, although I was sure he was pushing fifty. I know this because he once took out his driver's license to prove that he is not too old for me. That doesn't change the fact that he's a BIT too old for me. But girls think older guys are cool and that will never change.

When you're 15, you want the grade 12 gas-station attendant with a killer wink you could live off for a week. Cuts class? Smokes pot? Blasts Biggie from his mom’s Oldsmobile? PERFECT!

When you’re 18, you want the 24 year old waiter who drives you home from cooking school and tells you he lost his virginity to the sounds of Cypress Hill.

Hiking boots? Whatever…

Girlfriend? CHECK. Let’s keep this a secret? CHECK…

When you're 21, you want the 26 year old DJ who drinks one too many for Alberta's Best.

Before discovering that Pabst Blue Ribbon is just as cheap although he suffers inner turmoil because it’s apparently now “the hipster beer” according to the holy bible that is Vice magazine.

Girlfriend? CHECK. Let’s keep this a secret? CHECK…

Hmmm...PBR does not a hipster make.

She must not be from around these parts. In fact, I think I recognize her from a cultured place called the Universtiy of Western Ontario.

But what do I know? I haven't been to London, Ontario since like, 1997.

There might be really be really nice people in London, Ontario like my mom and dad's dear friend Ann Spence who just celebrated her 40th wedding anniversary.

All I know is that my parents did their residency in London and found it to be a close approximation of hell on earth and my dear friend Amna Silim graduated from Western in the spring and vows to never return to that god-forsaken place as long as she lives.

On the topic of BOYS.

When you're 25, you want a 34 year old lawyer. Or so I'm told...

Apparently, “guys are afraid of commitment…even 34 year olds”.

Wow…when did I die and become Carrie Bradshaw??

I certainly can't relate to her hair or her fur coats or her fashion sense in general, really.

SO. NOT. ME.

ON MY WAY TO CAFE SUPREME TO STUDY ON A TUESDAY NIGHT...

WHAT, DOES SHE THINK ST. LAURENT IS A RUNWAY OR SOMETHING??

Carrie Bradshaw.

On that note, last night in Katie’s bed, we toyed with the idea that I dodge the romantic road to commitment in favour of shooting the shit as one of the boys.

By the time I decide I want to kiss anyone, well more often than not, as far as my crush is concerned? I'm about as good as asexual.

Brother down. It's called BRO DOWN SYNDROME. And I've got it bad, girl. That’s why I sleep in Katie’s bed more often than that of any sexy boy. Katie has Life cereal.

It's multi-grain and although it’s pretty “dank” as Jenna would say, it doesn’t really compare to the egg/English muffin/cheese concoction he who shall remain nameless and faceless made me one Saturday morning in November…

But other than that, he’s nothing to write home about and never really was. Or blog about either, besides the odd reference to a Sheryl Crow song known as My Favourite Mistake and linking the video for that Peter, Bjorn and John jam about young folks calling the whole thing off or whatever.

[SIDENOTE: "Dunzo" means "we are so over, we need a new word for over" in Cali-speak. The term originated from the lips of esteemed philosopher Kristin Cavallari from Laguna Beach which paved the way for the Hills. Which originated from Laguna Beach.]

When you’re 22, you find you might actually be learning from your mistakes for the first time. Even your favourite ones.

Holy shit, when did I get so self-reflective?! And self-involved…

Maybe around the time RAID THA FRIDGE hit the information highway back in September.

My boy Marky-Mark feels the way my girl Keri Russell must feel when people say WHAT UP FELICITY?!

And the way my boy Will Smith must feel when people are all YO HOME, TO BELAIR!

Marky-Mark’s like “I LIKE, INVENTED ENTOURAGE! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU PEOPLE?!”

And Will’s all “I LIKE, INVENTED THE WILLENIUM! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU PEOPLE?! Baby, I can’t hear you, what? Jada honey, repeat yourself.”

And Will’s all “I GOT NOMINATED FOR AN OSCAR FOR PORTRAYING A PROMINENT AFRICAN-AMERICAN ROLE MODEL! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU PEOPLE?!”

My homegirl Alanis Morisette from my hometown Ottawa once said something about being associated with something you’re so totally over and done with. Homekids were like “Hey, what happened to Jagged Little Pill Alanis?” And she was all “Thank you, India” ‘n shit.

Well in recent years, she said something to the effect of “Sorry you guys, I’m just not that angry anymore.”

Me neither Alanis, me neither. Which is why I write WHATEVER THE HECK SILLY SHIT I WANNA WRITE on here, rather than writing utterly heartwrenching poetry about my multiple missteps in a moleskin notebook that no one would or should ever care to read.

That is not to say that I’m not in the midst of a telling semi-autobiographical short story writing spree in a moleskin notebook. Maybe even the same one. But who can really tell from way out there on the information highway…

Hopefully Oprah’s Book Club by the time I’m 27 if 5 year plans mean anything anymore.

In non-relation, the jam of the day is Back in the U.S.S.R. by the Beatles.

And if you don't get it, well you're about as useful as Sigourney Weaver pretending to be Russian by singing it in Heartbreakers with Jennifer Love Hugetits.

What a useless pair. Completely alien to me.