The Chronicles of Nik

Getting Funky

I have been in a funk. The funkiest of funks in fact. And not some sort of extended black eyed peas induced funk. The bad kind of funk (which some would argue is also the black eyed peas funk). And not the bad kind of funk that comes from an onion that’s been in the vegetable crisper too long, although that funk has more in common with my funk than the black eyed peas funk, but I digress. My funk was (note past tense for important directional vectoring of the blog) a spiritual, emotional and psychological funk. Although for some the black eye peas funk may also be of the spiritual variety.

For two months and three days (as of writing this) I have stopped doing most of the the things that I have come to understand as defining of the Nikolai Paterak brand.

Rest assured certain habits still persisted during the aforementioned funk. These include and are not limited to: regular feedings, bathings, general housekeeping, bill paying and rent paying – which in the opinion of most people would still qualify as a bill but with the list of “things I still did while I gave up on life and was pathetic” being so short I thought I would pad it out with a little something extra.

I just took a long drink of a stiff rum and coke and all of this is feeling really good right now so I’m gonna keep going all Jack Kerouac stream of consciousness on this shit. Hang on.

But there are three things that have come to define if not me then at the very least my free time. For the last two months I have not written, rock climbed, and I have barely read – which depends on whether or not you count Game of Thrones as reading. I also quit my job sort of for a few days. Don’t worry, they took me back because I rule.

Bathroom break.

I wanted to get back to writing this so bad I didn’t even wash my hands. I’m only kidding if you’re offended. Sorry roommate who uses my computer.

Seriously though, for the last two months I haven’t done shit. I’ve stayed as close to home as humanly possible, and whenever I get too far away I run back. That’s the god’s honest truth. I would break plans with people at the last minute if I didn’t like the idea of being away from my apartment for too long. Fucked up right?

What could precipitate such a bizarre shift in habits and state of mind. It sounds stupid, but rock climbing. Yep. A hobby. It’s embarrassing having written that, but stream of consciousness right!? I will proofread this garbage, never fear.

Without going into too much detail about rock climbing, I went on a trip. It didn’t go well. I got super duper scared. And then rather than rebound with some sort of heroic cliff faced saga I had a mental breakdown. Most people write about the acts of heroism and bravery, but this ain’t that kinda bag doll face.

Ironically, the last thing I wrote before this two month hiatus was about rock climbing. Even better, is that it turned out it was good enough to win a writing competition. This news was received whilst on trip but post mental breakdown.  I declined the prize. I felt like a fucking failure. To quote Chuck Palahniuk, I wanted to destroy something beautiful. Except this time it wasn’t the face of a blond Jared Leto. It was and is my first and only real accomplishment as a writer, something I’ve strived for for some time, and I needed to ruin. It’s a combination of me wanting to be as low as I can and getting a fucked up high off the reaction when I tear something to shreds that is quite clearly so positive in my life.

Brace yourself for an anecdote from my childhood, coles notes edition. My sister and I were big into building or constructing crafts for the the Fall Fair in our area. Big is an understatement. The preparation for this fair occupied most of our summer. And lord knows what the category of craft was, ‘garbage made out of paper maiche’, but I built some sort of mutant comic bird, which if we’re being honest was perhaps ahead of its time as I recall it being very much in the spirit of japanese anime. Regardless, it was awesome. How much parental assistance was involved in the construction is not something I can be certain of. The mutant bird won some sort of ribbon, participation or otherwise. This was a prized craft though in my trophy case of useless and dangerously flammable art pieces. My sistine chapel. I destroyed it. TO PIECES. It began with some sort of tantrum and as it whirled into hurricane proportions I just remember feeling the need to destroy anything and everything that was mine that was successful, if not for me then also to see the disappointment of those around me. It is probably a poor strategic move to make this sort of damning admission on the the soap box of the internet if I ever hope to be approved for a mortgage or whatever other adult thing I need in the future. Long story short I never grew up, I just got a little better at writing. Or better at using proper punctuation, except for the semicolon which scares me.

Back to present day I refused the prize to the writing contest which was a spot in a writing symposium. There was the fight club destroy everything beautiful mentality, but I also didn’t feel worthy of going to this sort of meeting of the climbing minds given what I had just gone through.

Within two weeks of returning home from this event I also quit my job for three days. I just stopped going. Operation life dismantle was in full swing, and sweet shit was I good at it.

Fortunately cooler heads prevailed, I went back to work – see they took me back at work. And I have continued to do well at work. But for these two months I have done absolutely zero writing and climbing. And despite attending my job I still haven’t felt all there for a while.

I kept telling myself that I just needed a few more days and I would hop back on the horse or whatever animal is in vogue to ride now, but the further I strayed the more the orbit of my past habits seemed to lose its grip on me.

Climbing was easy to write off. Why would anyone want to replay any element of a shitty experience. Although in part true, it’s also overlooking the overwhelming body of super fucking awesome experiences I’ve had.

Writing was harder. Lack of inspiration was the points leader in excuses, and yes my day to day life as a plumbing apprentice does not fill the writing reservoir with cannon fodder, but tough shit sugar. Uh oh. It sort of just hit me now – yay stream of consciousness – as to why I’ve been avoiding this whole writing bag. In order to get back to writing I would have to write about this first and I wouldn’t necessarily like everything I wrote or admitted. Cough cough, yay stream of consciousness.

I feel better having written this. Right now in this moment I can’t say that I feel good having just admitted publicly that I’m a self destructive child that indulged in a pit of self pity for two months. But I do feel better.

Here’s to words and other stuff.

posted by Nik in What's wrong with me? and have No Comments


I’m not a great a writer. A grading of average or slightly there above by an outside and impartial judge would leave me feeling warm and fuzzy enough. And great writer I shall never be, with work and life there just isn’t time to dedicate to the craft that would put me on track – in this lifetime – to raise my prose to such a level, if it was even genetically possible.

This much is certain, I am getting better.

The means by which one can see this improvement could potentially push a writer to the liquor store. Fortunately I don’t have the funds to finance any sort of introspectively driven substance abuse therapy. Praise be to poverty.

Reading. This is my tool for measuring progress. Reading my own writing that is, and for whatever reason I don’t do it that often. An argument could be made that I don’t want to indulge in self congratulatory rituals, but really I’m lazy and strapped for time. If I sit down to read something and manage to not fall asleep, I’d rather read something that isn’t garbage, which is a polite way of saying I’ll read anything so long as the author penned at the bottom of the page isn’t Nikolai Paterak.

I broke that rule today, the thirteenth day of February, the eve of valentines day. I poured myself what passes for a cold glass of tap water in my building, bit deep and hard into a ripe Royal Gala, and dove head first into some of my older writing. And older does not mean it was written on a scroll.

It. Was. Terrible.

Accurate representation of events.

Accurate representation of events.

I didn’t even finish reading the damn thing before I was so disgusted with myself that I had to write something that I hoped would not also suffer the same fate of being total shit. This is that attempt.

Flustered best describes my state in this moment. A break is in order. I’m going to go to the climbing gym, and then I’ll wrap this up. See you in a few hours.

So life happened and it is now actual Valentine’s Day, no longer the eve of. What was meant to be a few hours turned into exactly twenty four. I could have lied, but I didn’t. Remember this moment. On the positive side I read what I wrote above the ellipses and it isn’t a festering pile of trash. On the really positive side I found a bottle of red wine. You can imagine where this has taken me. Yes, I am drinking it alone on the most romantic day of the year. However, the wine is red like my lonely beating heart which must subtract a few pathetic points. And besides what could be more romantic than writing the internet a self analyzing piece of hate mail directed at myself. Don’t answer that.

Three cheers for romance.

Three cheers for romance.

Back on track. Everything I write is shit. I haven’t gone back and further reread the piece that inspired this essay because I would just get flustered again and I might do something involving up ending this wine bottle over an empty mouth attached to yours truly. Suffice to say, I can remember the taste I had after the ill fated reading yesterday and it did not taste like the cheap red beside me.

As sadistic as it may sound, I would be worried and probably even give up the quill if I didn’t experience this level of loathing at every sampling of my past work.

This reaction – see disgust and physical revulsion – means that present writer Nik has improved enough over past writer Nik to know that past writer Nik was ( or is, this whole alternate self time paradox is very confusing when working with tenses) a complete and utter hack. Meaning present writer Nik is that much further from the aforementioned status, and future writer Nik, potentially, could feel the same about present Nik – see disgust and physical revulsion. And all this self loathing boils down to continued improvement.

Getting better means knowing what you did isn’t very good. It’s a hard pill to swallow. The alternative being looking back, reading my work and being content. This could mean happiness and perhaps ignorance, but this goes hand in hand with my stagnation as a writer.

Of course there is another option. There could come a time when I go back and read something I’ve written and am not in some way disappointed, disgusted, utterly ashamed or embarrassed. This is the day I am a great writer.

But from what I gather from various published writer’s accounts, they hate everything they write too. So maybe I’m on track.

posted by Nik in What's wrong with me? and have Comments (2)

New Year’s Fears

I hate New Year’s Eve. There is no need to prattle off the lengthy list of reasons why I and so many like me dislike the day. Those eves in the past blur into a string of disappointments and generally forgettable revelry. What has not been forgettable is my year. It has been what Bill and Ted would describe as righteous. And it has almost exclusively been a direct result of climbing.

 Most of my writing on this platform has been spared from the influence that is climbing. This has been intentional and with regards to this goal I do believe I have been successful. This is done almost entirely at the request of others. When the subject should arise, climbing that is, people ask politely if it could settle as quickly as is possible given the constraints of the english language.

But then I realized, “Hey, this is my gosh dang blog and I will write and draw terrible cartoons about whatever I so please!” Ok, I didn’t say that. For starters, I’m not a cast member of Leave it to Beaver. Secondly, I’m alone. This would mean I’m talking to myself again. Drawing and writing – poorly at that – alone on the eve of the new year is pathetic enough for my palette.

Without getting into too much detail, I had a rockin’ year in terms of climbing – that pun is equal parts intentional and terrible. I managed to climb and not get hurt in Quebec, New York, West Virginia, Kentucky, New Hampshire and Ontario. Yes I was afraid for much of the year, and you know what… I hope I stay scared all next year too, because holy shit is it fun.

 There is a problem though. As I mentioned, people don’t like hearing about my climbing epics. People also do not seem entirely fond of reading my words either, whether they make reference to climbing or not. What do people like? Looking at drawings that they would swear were stolen from a kindergarten class but were in fact drawn by a fully grown male who has been deemed in the eyes of the law legally capable of voting and driving. That artist is me.

Unfortunately, as much as I did improve at climbing over the course of this calendar year, my artistic talents did stagnate, fester and possibly degrade.

Without further ado, I present to you my…


Climbing in Ontario

Climbing in Quebec

Climbing in the Adirondacks

Climbing in West Virginia

Climbing in New Hampshire
To those who climb with me, thanks for sharing the fears… and never discussing the tears.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year

posted by Nik in What's wrong with me? and have Comments (2)


Of late I have not written much or often. The few lonely words I have penned have huddled together for warmth around a burning oil drum and have long forgotten any hopes of a chance to pollute the internet. I can cite a long list of excuses, some more genuine than others, but excuses can not excuse.

This essay, update, blog – however it need be branded – has already be started, shelved and abandoned once already. Originally it was conceived as a means to celebrate my escape from darkness and re-entry into the world of the day walkers. This is a bloated way of saying I got a new job working during the day. Yay me.

A year and a half of my life was spent as a creature of the night. I worked, ate, read, wrote and played in the dark. While the sun may set for some, it does not for all. And for a time I was a foot soldier of that unfortunate clan.

During this employment and lifestyle experiment I have known a fatigue I hope never to become so intimately familiar with. This was one of the excuses mentioned earlier.

At the start of my new job I made bold internal promises to renew and redouble my efforts. Much like superman the sun would rejuvenate me. Unlike superman I have no impressive powers beyond movie trivia which, to my knowledge, superman lacks. Again I faltered. Not too tired, but too lazy after a days work to summon the strength to do much more than turn on Netflix. For this I am angry with myself.

I have chosen what is easy over what is important – to me anyways.

People have asked why I haven’t posted and I’ve done what I can to avoid and parry the subject. The excuses I’ve made to myself don’t need to echo in the corridors of my life.

This actually happened.

This actually happened.

There’s no denying that something has been missing in my life and many a distraction has been summoned to fill it in the last month. TV, video games, movies, most anything that gives of that sweet electric glow that has come to be the campfire of our era. It is this, right now, the sound of pen etching into paper, that has been lost and since found.

I now embark on no great adventures to fuel my words, but like hippies around the world, I too search for alternative and sustainable fuel sources.

I have the power to change my habits. Metaphorically that is, because I, like so many, have no power on this 25th day of December (power has since been restored).

Given the nature of the situation someone asked if I was alright, to which I responded, “Yes, it could be worse…” as I realized I would have a distraction free opportunity to reacquaint myself with the pen and pad. They asked how it could be worse, and I took second to think on that, “Well…nobody could have power.”

posted by Nik in What's wrong with me? and have Comments (2)

What you want.

What do you want? It’s the same question your parents asked you when you were seven and it was your birthday, and it’s the same question you’ll ask as a parent when your kid is seven – should you decide to have them.

What do you want?

This depiction of god may not be accurate. We've never met.

Maybe I hang out with the wrong people, or not many people for that matter, but at some point we stopped talking about that as much. Yes we discuss what movie we want to see, what we want to eat, and also sorts of other material wants. More often than not we skirt the subject of what we want out of Life. And when it does come up, we’re shy and maybe even embarrassed to admit that where we’re at right now and what we’re doing isn’t what we want.

Very few people are exactly where they want to be, even though it may appear everyone has ‘arrived’ except for you and I.

What do you want?

God has a beard, not poo smeared on his face.

I wanted to write this blog. It isn’t very good. But I wrote it. I haven’t written many lately. There’s no point in apologizing on here when I will likely see the only three readers of this in person at which point I can apologize in person. Much more personal and sincere than a blanket blog apology.

I want to write more, so I write more. Simple. As. That.

What falls into the category of WANT changes. And thank god for that, otherwise I would still be hung up on the GI JOE mega base. Women may not get this reference, but trust me, as far as action hero vehicles go this was la creme de la creme.

What do you want?

Clouds are for sitting and standing.

So the things we wanted as a seven-year-old and an adult are different, hopefully. Unfortunately, as an adult, or at least in my experience, they don’t come wrapped in Ninja Turtles wrapping paper and there is no applause when we successfully destroy this turtle powered paper.

We’re expected to be good at that as adults.

And if we’re being perfectly honest, I wanted to draw a shitty cartoon so I wrote this even shittier blog as an excuse for that.

What do you want?

I doubt god has ever had ice cream...

posted by Nik in Toronto Living and have No Comments

Good Will Hunting and Fooseball

Ignorance is bliss. A sentence said by someone famous or of note, that has been recycled and beaten flat on the sidewalk of common over usage. Here I am, using it all the same. Sweet shit is it ever accurate though.

Life Formula

Life Formula

Good Will Hunting is a favourite film of mine. In particular I’m a fan of the scene where Mr. Damon goes on a very modest rant about how some complex math formula is a “fucking joke” for him.  To prove his point, he burns the pages that contained a bunch of numbers and maybe the cure for cancer or something.

All the theatrics of Damon’s childish temper tantrum are Oscar worthy and very entertaining, but what always hit me was what the professor said as he tries to extinguish and save what is left of Damon’s mathematical genius committed to paper.

Here’s what the professor says in response to the delicately put, “this is so fucking easy speech”:

“Most days I wish I never met you, because then I could sleep at night… and I wouldn’t have to walk around with the knowledge that there was someone like you out there.”

That’s some pretty deep shit. It’s no wonder he’s a professor.

Just to set the record straight I have nothing in common with the Matt Damon Character. I am no genius or savant. I am also not a janitor at this junction of my life. And sadly, I don’t go around completing complex formulas on chalkboards or sweeping floors. Actually, that’s a lie. On a nightly basis I sweep floors, and on one occasion I did solve an equation when I was passing through a chemistry lab. I was not sweeping the floor of that chemistry lab though. The story goes as follows. Without being enrolled in the chemistry class I balanced a chemical equation a grade thirteen class was challenged with. In the decade since nothing parallels this brief moment of genius. I peaked early and not often. Lucky, is the word that comes to mind and I fear all the luck I had to spend in this short life of mine was used up on that day, on that chalkboard. No movie has been made of my experience.

Now, as I have mentioned on so many occasions, I work in a factory. In that factory we are given two fifteen minute breaks and one half hour lunch. On those breaks we go to the games room. In that games room there is one pool table, two ping-pong tables and two fooseball tables. It has become my goal to become a leisure sport tri-athlete.

Having already mastered, in my opinion, pool and fooseball I have moved onto honing my pong skills. It is a serious business.

On days of rest, between rigorous matches of ping-pong, I still dabble in the other two disciplines as a way to maintain my balanced set of skills. Friday was selected as a day to unleash my god like control over the armless fooseball minions I command.

Fooseball Offender

Zeus plays fooseball too.

Thomas, my usual opponent, and I had barely warmed up when two fellow fooseballers asked if we wanted to play doubles. A fresh challenge, fresh meat. Thomas, in a moment of naivety, said the most damning combination of words for any competitive pursuit, “Ok…but we’re pretty good.”

The first game was over in minutes and we barely scored two goals which, I suspect, were offered up in pity.

There was no mercy during the second game either. If you couldn’t see the smile on their faces you would assume they were caught up in a berserker’s rage given the level of unrelenting ferocity they played with.

The assumption of my supremacy was shattered in less than one legally mandated break. I was left speechless, sweaty and defeated.

First of all, I understand that advanced mathematics and fooseball are very different, in so much as the former doesn’t really matter to most people. The devastating losses and exhibition of skill brought the professors speech to my mind though.

Until Friday I was at the top, or at the very least tied at the top amongst fellow elite players in my cadre. This is not the case, as I was so aggressively informed.

With perceived mastery comes complacency. Thomas and I played each other so often it became all we knew. In that small world we were the best. And if you weren’t the best, you were second place. It was a very safe world to live in, but not a real one. Now I must walk around with the knowledge that I am an inferior combatant and the true champions work in engineering, ‘upstairs’.

It’s the same reason I read more and more, the constant reminder that what I do here and on other pages, is by large volume, wholesale garbage that get’s fewer readers than park bench advertising.

I’m just thankful no one comes into my room after they have written a classic novel, lights it on fire and wraps it all up with a lecture on how ‘fucking easy’ it was.

No one even prints anything now, so that probably won’t happen. I also don’t know many classic novelists anymore.

posted by Nik in Toronto Living and have No Comments

Midnight Orchid

Posts have been sparse on this blog for the last year. A friend commented on just this, which took me by surprise. Loyal readers of an inconsistent – and sometimes incoherent – mediocre blog are hard to come by, and harder to hang onto. But there’s no denying it, contributions have been few and at best weak.

I’m going to make some excuses in the next collection of words.

I work at night. This has been mentioned to some extent in nearly every post since July 1st, and it has been a big part of my life, because it makes up most of my life. Nobody wants to read about how I have renamed every part I crane according to what I believe it looks like. That’s what’s been happening though. In the past I might have mentioned how working long late hours is a character building exercise, and how at this point I have enough character, but those words feel tired. Life is not a series of herculean trials, and shouldn’t be treated as such at the risk of detaching the humanity of it from any and all experience. Not everything is a test; tests are the only thing that are tests.

In full bloom...

The world I live in is divided distinctly between daywalkers and night creatures, although the daywalkers are not aware the distinction we’ve made. Light and dark, the classic division throughout history. It is the aspiration of most in the latter category to join the former. The world I live in is one of empty roads, lonely red lights and vacant gas stations. The darkness casts the world in a different light, where our sun doesn’t always rise. I see men amongst our ranks with their bags packed with the weight of their world stowed into the dark compartments under their eyes. Exhaustion isn’t a theme, it’s a way of life. With the yawn being the war cry and the national anthem.

I have fought this.

In both camps I have tried to keep one foot. I work among the creatures, and I set alarms and flail in the morning in an attempt to live a partially sun-kissed life, where Vitamin D is plentiful and narcoleptic tendencies aren’t so prevalent.

In this sleep experiment I have been trying to do my writing in the morning. I am not a good writer in the morning.

If my brain were to be compared to a pot of water, the element it sits on would be electric, not gas; the water takes all day to simmer. By the evening, if I’m lucky, the water might be up to a strong enough boil that a box of Kraft dinner can be cooked. These are the good days of course. There are the times when I forget to turn on the element at all.

Some people have gas elements. The boiling bubbles of scalding water crackle, pop and splatter all over the stove evaporating with that subtle sizzle that used to fascinate me when I was a child first trusted with the task of cooking my own Kraft dinner. These are what the world loves to hate, morning people. I am capable of getting up early, in fact I usually do so. Mental capacity during these hours is not peak. I will do laundry make breakfast, clean, read, shave, shower and shit, but the words required for writing don’t rise in me until the sun sets.

When I wake up in the morning the first thing I consider is how long I can stay in bed, totally prone, until I absolutely must go to the bathroom. These are not the thoughts of the early morning poet.

The story is quite different though in the evening hours. Over the course of day I get angry, sad, frustrated, and, on the rarest of occasions, even happy. The fuel for writing, not necessarily good writing, but words and sentences can then be strung together that, more often than not, even make sense. Victory.

This is the time to philosophize and meditate on subjects other than if I should get out of the bed and stumble across a tiled hallway to a bathroom with a painting of Gandalf on the wall.  To write about whatever it is I’ve been flirting with all day, and make sweet fine as love to it.

To write at night is to have the final say of the day. Thus, it is time to embrace my destiny as dictator of the darkness. Creature of the night I have been, creature of the night I will stay. I’ll let myself get angry, sad, mad, happy, glad and more, and I’ll let it spill out onto the page while I drink beer, eat asparagus and perched with pen on my penthouse balcony.

I am the midnight orchid, watch how I bloom.

posted by Nik in Toronto Living,What's wrong with me? and have No Comments

Bday Blog & F!@# Dave

I am a 28 year old man. I just got off the night shift in a factory. I am one year older.

Over the fence...

This is what getting older feels like. Cold, lonely, with the tree line just in sight.

Every year that I’ve had this blog I’ve put together some sort of lessons learned compilation. Things to take away from the year gone and past, celebrating whatever life lesson I came to understand, even if it is something I should have learned well before I could drive, buy porn and vote.

On april 11th 2011, at the age of 26 years old, I stated “Never have surgery in a foreign country, especially not on your ass in South Korea”. That is some bold, mysterious and disturbing philosophizing by my predecessor. To this day I stand by it, as it may be the truest thing I have or ever will say. My contribution to humanity. But to put your, our, my name on it, publish it on the sopping tabloid that is the internet and then wonder why I work nights in a factory is an unfortunate comment about my perception of how I am be perceived.

A man made of metal said it better than I ever could, “If I only had a brain.”

Before I get to the list, and I will of course get to the list, I got a bone to pick with a guy named Dave. He and I attended public school and high school together, although only during the former can I say we were close friends. Dave was a nice guy who was really good at Super Mario 64.

He possessed the sort of smile you would welcome into your home to sharpen your kitchen knives. I was very good at French, but less so at Mario, especially when it came time to fight Bowser. Dave was not very good at French. As you might have already surmised, our complimentary skill sets complemented well.

So there was a time when Dave and I began the intellectual exchange we call friendship. I liked Dave.

Fast forward to today, or two weeks ago to be more specific. A friend of mine, Ryan, bumps into Dave. The subject of my employment comes up in conversation. Dave was not pleased or proud with the progress I had made in this cruel world and professed such. Enthusiastically.

Dave said he thought I would be a poet. I was confused to hear that Dave’s idea of the epitomy of life’s ziggurat is… poet. And I suppose he was not far off on the want and desire to play with words. I’m just not much for rhyming and I don’t feel the need to wear a beret or grow a goatee, too old for those games now old chum.

By the power of greyskull, did dear Dave ever cast judgement unto my life. Bewildered describes my state. Did Dave and I not bond over videogames and foreign languages?

Nik from two years ago might have been upset by the retelling of this social judgement. Now, with my current level of enlightenment, I can see there is but one difference between Dave and I. The difference being simple: Over the last decade I haven’t thought for one second what I thought Dave would be doing. Let’s just say I was too busy.

So Dave, I wrote you a poem, and I hope it lives up to all of your wildest poetic dreams for me.

Dave is a prick.

I was never very good at writing poetry.

Onto the list of lessons. This year they are simple, few and hopefully truths that will sculpt your life. In no particular order…

Shit I Learned When I Was 27:

1. Getting evicted is ok, so long as you are not the crackhead responsible for the eviction.

2. Throwing a coffee table does not settle an argument.

3. Do not by a car that, under any circumstances and regardless of impossibly low price, has an aftermarket speaker set installed using a mix of wood and drywall screws.

4. When you yell from a balcony, “The (insert season) of (insert name)!!!” ie, “The summer of Nik!!!”, you are dooming yourself.

5. Raccoons don’t like jalapeno peppers.

6. Avoid living in rooms you can’t stand up straight in.

7. Avoid owning nice stuff. It won’t stay nice when you get evicted.

8. Don’t take shit from Dave.

9. It’s now considered ‘therapeutic’ not pathetic to vent frustrations, both viciously and anonymously, against any human or corporate entity from the safety of the internet.

10. Don’t go back and read anything you’ve written that is older than a year… and that you maybe set free onto the internet.

11. The Netipot is the vilest of humanity’s creations.

That’s it, talk next year.




posted by Nik in Uncategorized,What's wrong with me? and have No Comments

Penthouse Parking

I moved, again. In the last two years I have done a considerable amount of lateral shifts in terms of living accommodations, but I have finally made a long overdue social leap forward. My new apartment is a penthouse at Prince Charles Terrace. Breathe it in. I am.

The new place is swell. You need a special key to use the elevator to get up to ‘My Level’, which adds a sense of elitism I am unaccustomed to but quickly growing fond of. There are two decks; both of which are bigger than my first apartment. And my room came with a sword, which, based on my penthouse experience, is a penthouse tradition.


This blessing has been taken from the bosom of craigslist, and isn’t she just a bountiful bitch. If craigslist isn’t kissing, even gently, every part of your life then you’re doing something wrong.

This blog isn’t about my awesome apartment – and awesome it is, it’s about the f@#$ing parking ticket I got my first night in the underground parking.

Underground parking is supposed to be a safe haven for cars, free from bird shit and tickets, where subterranean differences are handled in private without involving the law man, much like Fight Club. After parking in the wrong spot for only a few hours I was left with this note along with one city of Toronto parking ticket.

Warming? WARMIMG!?

I can endure the parking ticket. Last year alone I collected over $700 worth of these yellow book marks, most of which I fought like Robin Hood, except I have no merry men, nor am I merry and I give nothing back to the people – except this blog, which could be argued is more of a burden on the internet than anything. But what I can’t bare is this asshole leaving a passive aggressive  note on my car so riddled with poor penmanship.

WARNING is spelt with two n’s not two m’s. In fact every n in the letter looks like an m. So either this person has terrible handwriting; is an idiot (I wager on this); or has a bizarre speech impediment and spells everything phonetically. If I hadn’t just bought the car I would sell it, or at the very least replace the windshield that has been soiled with this love letter.

Go back and read the note, please. Get angry. I would retype every line and follow it up with a long list of expletives, but I have to go to work soon and I’m willing to wager you don’t want or need to read that.

What does a man do when he has been wronged? It used to be you would shout from the highest bell tower. Name and shame. Bell towers being in short supply this option isn’t practical, instead I will scream from the largest metaphorical tower in the land, the internet.

F@#$ you guy who parks beside me. I hope when you do your taxes this year you get audited.

PS. I finally saw the car owned by the man responsible to this affront. It is a suped up Volkswagen with level 9 douchebag window tinting. I predict that he owns the box set collectors edition of all the Fast and Furious movies. If that isn’t justice I don’t know what is.

posted by Nik in Toronto Living and have Comments (2)

Ain’t got no HEAT!

My apartment has no heat and I don’t know why. That’s a lie, I do know why; no one has turned it on. What I don’t understand is why they haven’t turned it on. The only thing I am certain of is that it’s cold. I am also cold. Someone commented that my situation is like camping, unfortunately, this isn’t a weekend excursion, this is my life. What I save in utilities, I lose in lifespan.

In our universe we don’t have control of the thermostat or our survival. It has been decided this power should not be placed in our hands. Instead it is left to the vintage store beneath us, and either they don’t mind the arctic conditions or they’re trying to better preserve the garbage they attach price tags to.

Life on the ice planet Hoth (Star Wars reference) poses some challenges to comfortable living.
Here are five things I hate doing now that I can store raw meat in my bedroom.

1. Putting on deodorant

by Nikolai Paterak

2. Showering

by Nikolai Paterak

3. Taking off my socks

by Nikolai Paterak

4. Getting out of bed

by Nikolai Paterak

5. Being Sick

by Nikolai Paterak


posted by Nik in Uncategorized and have Comments (4)