I’m Going to Need Jonah Hill to Acknowledge That We Were Once Twins

This isn’t an actual post. Really, it’s a call to action. Because last week I posted a Throwback Thursday pic on Instagram and it looked like this…Yrbook…and I fucking KNOW, right? The Jonah Hill resemblance is uncanny and more than a little Sci-Fi-esque and separated-at-birth-y.

The weirdest thing is that I look absolutely nothing like him as an adult, so this whole situation truly is, as stated in the above Instagram caption, a mysterious riddle. A mysterious riddle that must be solved.

When I first noticed, I wondered if it was the universe pulling a hilarious switcheroo (I just wrote “switcheroo”), and that maybe Jonah’s childhood yearbook photo actually looks like adult me.

But I looked it up, and no. Instead it’s basically just a black and white variation of the one I posted above.

jonah2

Does anyone else think this is crazy? And that there has to be some kind of method to this madness? And that Jonah Hill probably knows something the rest of us do not?

Because I do.

I also need a new celebrity to harass on Twitter, because I’m fairly certain Celine Dion’s people are two tweets and a Facebook comment away from filing a restraining order against me on her behalf. We’re not adopting a cat together. It’s fine.

All of the above is to say that I’d like to propose a campaign to get Jonah to react to this obviously cosmic connection and also make me famous. If you’d like to participate, feel free to tweet this article at him using the hashtag #JonahNicMysteriousRiddle, because I clearly want to cock-block my chances of ever making it trend by making it a thousand letters. And if you’d rather not participate because you think it’s invasive and/or have a life, don’t worry — I’ll probably be nagging him enough for all of us anyway.

 

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Kind of a Blog Post About Dating, Mostly a Video of Me Singing a Dixie Chicks Song

Recently some readers have been inquiring about my dating life, which, contrary to the fact that I haven’t really blogged about it in nearly nine months, has not disintegrated entirely into a never-ending loop of me eating bagels and watching the OWN Network with the affirmation “I give up on men but it’s fine because Oprah completes me” pinned front and center to the cork board of my sad, sad manless mind.

No, it’s been quite the opposite. Really I just cooled it on the confessional dating posts because I got sick of being held accountable to the identity of Thirsty Writer Who Can’t Find Love. The line between my art and my life had gotten a little too blurry. (Also, furry.) (And a lot like jury.) (Duty.)

(…What the fuck just happened?)

I think during the golden era of Jilted-Insecure-What-Is-Love-BABY-DON’T-HURT-ME blog posts, what I was really looking for was some kind of external validation and/or magical cowboy to sweep me off my feet and make all my problems go away. (Because #ThatzHealthy.) The reality of actually settling down and committing my time and energy to the happiness of another human being and having to deal with things like “sacrifice” and “compromise”? LOL. No. The first option required much less effort and made for better writing material.

I came to this epiphany earlier this year after I finally stopped looking for that cowboy and then a bunch of dudes fell for me at the same time and it made me feel like almost as much of a douche bag as I do for typing this sentence right now. You know those surreal phases where you become a man-magnet and the more men want you, the more other men want you? And your life becomes a real-world version of The Weather Girls’ timeless classic “It’s Raining Men,” until finally you’re like, “Wait, I think I wanna just go inside now. Or at least whip out an umbrella,” because you’ve lost the ability to give a shit? It was one of those.

Mancloud

Which is why now I’m not really wasting anyone’s time by trying.

Instead I’ve just been living and focusing on things that I love already – my family, my friends, my writing. My newfound interest in singing random country songs while shittily playing guitar. Of course I’ve loved being in relationships in the past, and if another one happens to come my way soon and it feels organic and right and not at all like suffocating, then awesome.

But as for the idea of longing for a magical cowboy to sweep me off my feet and make all my problems go away? I’m over that shit. It makes for better art than it does an actual way of life.

 

11 Signs You’re Drunk and a Problem

1. You order a “Grey Goose and Vodka.” The bartender looks at you weird and is all, “You mean Grey Goose and Soda?” and you reply, “THAT’S WHAT I SAID, DICK!” followed immediately by, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

2. In the wake of #1, an imaginary, miniature, and slightly translucent Full House-era Bob Saget starts hovering over your left shoulder and convinces you to leave a 100% tip, mostly out of white guilt (or something), to make up for the whole debacle.

3. Straight women: You start Katy Perry-ing and kissing each other.

4. Gay men: You also start Katy Perry-ing, kissing straight women and/or lesbians.

Well, I made it a solid two months.

Well. At least I made it two months.

5. Straight men: Ain’t nobody got time for Katy Perry, as you’re too busy Facebook status-ing impassioned rants RE: underrated athletes who are hated on by many but are in fact the BEST OF ALL TIME.

6. You spend five or more minutes meticulously fashioning a grammatically sound and typo-free text message to your [ex-boyfriend/hookup/person whom you generally wish would love you] that simply says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

7. You start answering all questions with “GENEVA CONVENTION!”

8. You’re not sure what the Geneva Convention is/was.

drunk

9. You craft what you think is the perfect Snapchat, but is in fact just a really, really dark picture of an unremarkable barstool. When sending, you speedily check off names with reckless abandon—including all the people you usually avoid Snapchatting out of fear that they’ll think you’re a loser. Which is very ironic.

10. You touch people in ALL the places.

11. You receive a response to the text sent in #6. It says, “I’m OK, you?” and you respond with, “WHdAT the FKCU Do YOU THINK, ASFKLHOLE???”

 

My Day as a Psycho Celebrity-Spammer on Twitter

So, let’s talk about CELINE FUCKING DION. (You’re welcome.)

This story starts a few months ago, when some literary agents were telling me that my author platform wasn’t strong enough to warrant a book deal in today’s sure bet-driven marketplace. Which, in other words, means that I don’t have enough Twitter followers. Which, in other words, means that I’m not popular enough. Which, in other words, means that the publishing industry is basically Mean Girls and — Oh my God, Danny DeVito I love your work!

The fucked up thing about it is that if I actually did have a hundred thousand Twitter followers, I’d probably be one of those entitled, douche-y assholes who’s all, “Duh. Get with the times. Of course I have a huge platform; what do you think I am? A loser?

So maybe I’m a hypocrite, it’s fine.

One day in March, coming off the bitter sting of a fresh rejection, I was IM-ing with my friend Kaci.

  • Nic: Ugh. Still not popular enough
  • Nic: How do I get more followers on Twitter???
  • Nic: Maybe I should just start harassing celebrities in hopes that they’ll retweet me?
  • Nic: Which ones, though?
  • Kaci: Celine
  • Kaci: obvi
  • Kaci: I need to start getting cats and committing to dying alone
  • Nic: That’s it!
  • Nic: I’ll ask Celine to adopt a cat with me

And then a monster was born.

1

RE: the whole “Aegean” thing: basically I just Googled “cat breeds” and then chose the one that I felt would read most elegantly within the context of a tweet to Celine Dion. But apparently my elegance didn’t matter, because Celine ignored me as if I were a creepy Internet weirdo or something.

But then! I figured out why:

2

Still nothing. So then I moved into the anger stage and was all, “Fuck Celine! I’ll branch out to… Martha Stewart.”

3 4

DROP G’S! I thought it was brilliant. But Martha clearly wasn’t amused, as she ignored me too, forcing me to wonder if maybe my Internet fame wouldn’t be best found through middle-aged divas (one musical, one domestic) catered to the daytime-TV-watching crowd, so I went after the Jonas Brothers.

5 6

BUT NO LUCK THERE. (On the kitten or the marriage.)

So then I went back to Celine in a final, desperate attempt to get her to at least adopt something with me, but for some reason by that point in the day I became an incoherent mess who required three tweets to finish a thought and close a set of parentheses:

7 8 9

Celine continued in her staunch dedication to not acknowledging that a crazy person was spamming her on Twitter, which made me frustrated.

Frazzled and feeling like if I didn’t get at least one celebrity retweet by day’s end that I’d NEVER GET PUBLISHED, LIKE, EVER, I proceeded to do this:

10

By the end of it all, I reviewed my timeline’s activity and felt highly, highly ashamed of myself. Who does shit like this? I wondered. This is pathetic and embarrassing.

But then my thoughts wandered into a more gratitude-y place — feeling relieved that, well, at least I didn’t have a hundred thousand followers watching.

 

I Actually Wouldn’t Sleep with Justin Bieber, Probably

Earlier this week, I was IMing with my friend Steven.

  • Steven: I’m in a weird state of mind
  • Nic: Why??? Are you finding yourself sexually attracted to Justin Bieber BUT ONLY IN CERTAIN PICTURES? Because I might be
  • Steven: Haha, ew
In my defense, it was only one picture, which I will share below (complete with Paintbrush annotations that I’m pretty sure justify my controversial opinion):

I mean, look at that neck.

In light of Steven’s “ew,” though, I decided to survey other people via IM to gauge their opinions and find out whether or not I actually have a problem.

With my work-wife Mila:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Mila: NO
  • Mila: I will not let you go down this slippery slope
  • Mila: I love you, you’re better than this

With my work-wife Jenny:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Jenny: NO!
  • Jenny: it’s the tattoos, isn’t it?

With an anonymous friend of mine from grad school:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Anonymous: [long period of silence/on-and-off typing]
  • Anonymous: hot
  • Anonymous: just in that pic though
  • Anonymous: and you can never tell anyone i said that

I think this means that deep down everyone agrees with me and I win.

P.S. I just thought about it for a second, and actually? There are no winners in a blog post dedicated purely to whether or not Justin Bieber is hot.

P.P.S. Except for Bieber himself, maybe, because out of all the Bieber news coverage this week, this is probably the least likely to get him hate mail.

P.P.P.S. You’re fucking welcome, Justin. And no, I have no idea why I suddenly switched from calling you “Bieber” this whole time to calling you “Justin.” Maybe because the whole last name thing feels too impersonal and now that I’m addressing you directly I’m trying to make us all a little more comfortable?

P.P.P.P.S. By the way, did I really say “hate mail” before? Is this 1993? I meant to write “hate tweets.” And I’m sorry dude, but you kind of asked for them. Stop being such a jackass.

 

If You’re as Sensitive as I Am, You Probably Just Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Watch TV

So I have this thing where I’m really empathetic all the time and I feel ALL the emotions. Even when I’m not trying to, I always find myself inadvertently mustering up at least some degree of empathy for everyone in every situation ever.

In real life this is usually a positive trait, as it allows me to have things like “compassion for others.” And understanding. And melodramatic bonding sessions with overemotional female friends who are going through ugly breakups with major douche bags who have no regard for women’s feelings but whose sides of the story I can also understand and relate to on some level, because again, empathy.

It’s a whole thing, and both my mom and new age wisdom tell me it means I might be an Earth Angel.

(OMG like Nicolas Cage in City of Angels? Which, I mean – his name is Nicolas. Without an H just like me. Holy shit. Someone find me a black trench coat and a cynical-yet-soft-on-the-inside doctor who looks like Meg Ryan.)

My high-strung emotional sensitivity can become a big problem, though, when I’m watching television. Because if the thing on the screen is all sad and desolate, then I cry and question the meaning of life. But if it’s super fun and hilarious, then you can probably bet your ass that I’m laughing out loud like the Whoopi Goldberg hyena from Disney’s The Lion King.

Basically I watch TV like a toddler on uppers.

(Side note: I’m not a parenting expert, but you probably shouldn’t give your toddler uppers. Or downers, for that matter. Or heroin. And definitely not Lucky Charms. Actually? Just don’t give them anything. Most toddlers are assholes anyways.)

(Maybe I am a parenting expert?)

So. The other night I was drinking red wine and watching some episodes of Modern Family I had saved on my DVR, and I got to one where the teenage girls Haley and Alex were lugging a mirror down into Haley’s bedroom in the basement and, out of the fucking blue, a possum (or is it opossum? this word is a dick) showed up on the steps behind them.

The reactions of the girls were really funny to me at first, and so I laughed, but then I got a closer look at the possum and my hypersensitivity arrived on cue and I was all, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY EXCUSE FOR ONE OF GOD’S CREATURES.” And then Alex made a “playing possum” pun and Haley (the ultimate ditz) didn’t get it, but then I paused for a moment and realized that I didn’t get it either, and so I was like, “What the fuck, Alex? Thanks for making me feel stupid.”

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the episode, Cam’s daughter Lily had lice.

After struggling to keep her away from him by telling her that the carpet he was on was hot lava and then literally putting a cardboard box on her head (this is why I love this show), he eventually decided to travel to the Dunphy house to acquire some lice treatment he was told they had in their basement – at which point I yelled at the television screen, “DON’T DO IT, CAM. THERE’S A POSSUM LURKING!”

But he didn’t listen to me.

So then he went to the house, where Alex and Haley had lost track of the possum after hiding out in Haley’s bedroom for too long and were all like, “Huh. Where did it go? Maybe it went back outside?” and then Cam and Lily started walking down the stairs and then the fucking possum FELL FROM THE CEILING and then I legitimately screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and threw my arms up in the air in what can only be described as a really, really gay tizzy. Which also happens to be exactly what Cam did.

Except unlike Cam, I had that glass of red wine in my hand.

And, so, THIS:

img_20140306_140537

Amazingly, though, I managed to miss the couch and my rug entirely – which I’m incredibly grateful for, because that would have majorly sucked. So really, in the end, I was touched by an angel. AKA MYSELF.

 

26 Words to Live By for My 26th Birthday (AKA NicRiah Day)

Today is the anniversary of Mariah Carey’s and my respective births, and why this isn’t a federal holiday yet is beyond me.

But I mean, I’m sure it will be someday, because Catholic people are always in the midst of lent during this time and so they’re likely very irritable for having given something up that they love (unless they’re that guy who’s all “I give up Sprite!” when really his drink of choice is vodka and/or crack – can you drink crack? – but I digress) and so they kind of need a day off from work to help deal with all their Sprite vodka crack withdrawal fits, and so I’m sure a moment will eventually come when the Pope is all, “I have an idea! March 27th is the perfect day for a holiday and it shall be called NicRiah Day” (because why wouldn’t the Catholic church spontaneously create a new holiday in honor of a large-breasted pop diva who loves to be almost-naked on stage and a wacky tall dude from Connecticut who loves to be fully-naked…in beds with other dudes…?), and then before you know it the U.S. government will catch on to the trend and be like, “Well if all these damn Catholics are calling out of work for this new holiday anyways, then why the hell not just make it a thing?” (I think this is how Christmas happened.)

So basically when the future is here and it’s March 27, 2025 and your Jewish coworker is all, “Thanks for the freebie, Catholics!” I hope you’ll turn to the guy and say (in a stern voice), “Don’t thank the Catholics; thank Mariah Carey and Nicolas DiDomizio.”

You’re welcome.

NicRiahDay

That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek. (Side note: That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek — I think this is the sentence I was born to write.)

In totally unrelated and slightly more spiritual news, here’s an unabashedly redundant, cliché, and (seemingly) trite list of 26 words I plan to embody in my approach to life during my 26th year:

  1. Presence
  2. Awareness
  3. Gratitude
  4. Simplicity
  5. Peace
  6. Truth
  7. Stillness
  8. Serenity
  9. Laughter
  10. Ease
  11. Consciousness
  12. Meaning
  13. Energy
  14. Laughter again
  15. Healing
  16. Forgiveness
  17. Laughter again
  18. Absurdity
  19. Transparency
  20. Growth
  21. Trust
  22. Faith
  23. Love
  24. Sprite
  25. Vodka
  26. Crack

KIDDING ABOUT THE CRACK. I HAVE NEVER DONE CRACK.

(I don’t know why I felt the need to scream that. My apologies.)

…Okay, so this post is supposed to be over, but it felt weird to finish with a parenthetical just now. Especially a parenthetical that basically says, “I’m sorry for joking about crack and then screaming at you with caps lock afterward about how I was joking about crack.” That crack joke, really, was just a horrible idea. And now it seems to be holding me hostage. In my own blog. ON MY BIRTHDAY. WTF. Is this what they were warning me about in D.A.R.E. when I was too busy singing Mariah Carey songs in my head to pay attention? Ooh! Mariah. Full circle. Okay. Happy birthday to me. Byeee.

 

“Clown-Related Crimes Soar in Parts of England” is a Real-Life Headline, but Here are Three Better Ones

Yesterday there was an actual article on New York Daily News with a headline of “Clown-Related Crimes Soar in Parts of England” and I was naturally like “WTF?” and then clicked it and learned that this is a legit problem. (But only in parts of England, because apparently clowns suck at mobilizing.)

The idea of It-like clowns wreaking havoc on small children overseas is mostly frightening but also a little hilarious (kind of like the idea of me having access to a Twitter account), but either way it’s not something I want to focus too much of my energy on.

So with that in mind, here are three headlines that are NOT real, but are similar. And a lot better.

1. Leprechaun-Related Beatings Skyrocket in Certain Rural Turkish Neighborhoods, Sources Believe Jennifer Aniston is Involved

Because let’s be honest, she was in that leprechaun movie many years ago where one of them almost killed her and so you know it’s feasible that girlfriend might hold a grudge. I mean, did you notice how she didn’t even tweet yesterday? BECAUSE IT WAS ST. PATRICK’S DAY AND SHE WAS TOO BUSY ORCHESTRATING A LEPRECHAUN-ABUSE SCHEME IN ONLY CERTAIN RURAL NEIGHBORHOODS IN TURKEY.

(Side note: I just checked Twitter and realized that my claim is ridiculous because Jennifer Aniston doesn’t even have a Twitter in the first place… or is her lack of a Twitter altogether because of leprechauns? Those fuckers do tweet like crazy, I hear. #PotOGold #TheRumorsArentTrueMyDickIsHuge #WhatElseWouldALeprechaunTweet?)

2. Weird Batch of Dunkin Donuts Munchkins in Central Connecticut Grows Wings, Violently Attacks Nuns and Strippers and Children with Gluten Allergies

I imagine these nefarious munchkins would also have really sharp, vicious-looking teeth. Kind of like Angry Birds, I guess, except munchkins?

(Side note: I just Googled Angry Birds and realized that, in spite of my mental image of them, they don’t even have teeth. Wow. I suck at offhand pop culture references today.)

Munchkins

Because these three types of humans are basically one and the same. (Side note: Did I just steal the concept for the children’s movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? I’ve never seen it, but I just realized that this looks a lot like certain advertisements I’ve seen.)

3. Croatian Mermaid Sparks Syphilis Outbreak in Adriatic Sea

Because we all know from last week that mermaids are sea-sluts.

 

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