My name's Nick and I am fucking crackers. I live in a palatial first-floor maisonette, with my good friend Terrence Whittaker, where we spend most of our time speaking gibberish. We have adopted a cat who used to run Spain (we call him 'The General'); he started coming in uninvited and we were basically too scared to put him back out, so now he comes and goes as he pleases. Attacking me in passing. I am still learning to be a man (though I never want to grow up) and to look after and be kind to myself (I fail at this often). I would like to do less harm in life than I often do. I used to be depressed but now I'm just a bit wonky and really quite happy. I work in an office and though it's not a bad job, I still dream of being a spy or tooling about the French Riviera on my imaginary yacht. I'm extremely narcissistic and enjoy mirrors and suits very much, though I also appreciate the finer qualities of the Canadian Tuxedo or 'double-denim' as it's more commonly referred to. I flit from being a sybarite to slumming it at the drop of a hat (cocktails and Stella Artois are equally refreshing). I love music and literature like pretty much nothing else on this Earth and would be lost without them, so I guess that makes me your typical Internet-blogging-scenester-douche, but fuck it; that's how I roll.
'The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for, and I hate very much to leave it'. - Ernest Hemingway.
