Latest TV Crush: DeGrassi's Holly J Sinclair

If there was a Jeopardy spin-off for shitty teenage melodramas, I wouldn’t be writing for Cinema Blend; I’d be swimming in my heated indoor pool with water wings made out of air, rubber, and one hundred dollar bills because I’d have more money than Ken Jennings. At one point or another, I have fallen in love and sometimes later discarded dozens of television‘s most eligible teenage hotties. Saved By The Bell--had a mad crush on Kelly Kapowski. Boy Meets World--would do some dirty things to Topanga Lawrence. The Wonder Years--still pissed Winnie isn‘t my wife.

But even with the high rewatch value of these gems, it’s just not the same when you know Kelly Kapowski is going to be briefly replaced during her senior year by some leather jacket wearing, manly sleaze who steals Zach’s parking space. It’s just not the same when you know all of Topanga’s smiles, know all the goddamn pretty boy lifeguards Ms. Cooper made out with that one summer. Even a lazy, stagnated bastard like myself craves the occasional feeling of newness, a little strange now and again and to be quite honest, I wasn’t sure that was ever going to happen again, not after I plowed through Laguna Beach (Jessica), The Secret World Of Alex Mack (Alex Mack), Even Stevens (Wren), Sabrina The Teenage Witch (Sabrina), Clarissa Explains It All (Clarissa), Daria (Jane), Boston Public (Miss Davis), and, of course, Freaks & Geeks (Maureen Sampson). But then late last week, out of nowhere, like some glorious treasure trove, I uncorked Degrassi: The Next Generation, a Canadian teenage soap, which, at this point in my life, is the only thing that matters.

And I am potbelly over sandals in love with Holly J. Sinclair:

It always starts with skepticism. I’m suspicious of new girls on account of both personality and obsession with Cold Case Files. You never know who might be a murderer, blackmailer, arsonist, thief, surreptitious Canuck. These soul-suckers hide among us, siphoning off our money and will to live like Dementors with makeup and hoop earrings. But if there‘s one thing Bill Curtis has taught me, it‘s there are always warning signs. Always. Your wife just took out an insurance policy and stocked up on drain cleaner the same afternoon? Best to be a bit suspicious over the next few fortnights.

But fuck to the warning signs, I’m friending her on Twitter:

Moody, well-organized and obsessed with superficial perfection, Holly J is the half-secretary, half megabitch my hometown duped me into lusting after. She’s the chick who finds security a more imperative prerequisite than love, breeding of higher concern than passion. She’s the Stepford Wife who couldn’t check her tongue, a garrulous, demanding nag who spells like a homeschooler and always, always lies on her back and thinks of England. I’ve got a thing for well-spoken, overly educated high society cunts who tend an immaculate house. I can’t help it. I’m too inept to figure out what shade of curtain would best accent eggshell white walls.

This is why I love Holly J:

After finding out she was the only virgin on the cheerleading team, that pack of loose sirens, she made a list of activities to do and included “lose virginity.” She might as well have put a Post-It note on her Trapper Keeper or taken crayon to her Elmer’s Glue Stick. Who does that? Oh yeah, anal retentive and confused leader of the pack bitches who boil everything, and I mean everything, from their spelling books to their condescending glances down to a science.

This is why I’d like to have kids with Holly J:

Her older sister, Heather, is the real Regina George in the Sinclair Household. And how awesome would that be to deal with that unseen Heather every family party from here on out? Congratulations, Mack Jr., Aunt Heather got you argyle socks and an Ed Hardy shirt for Easter. Go thank her for the shit you’ll never wear. She’s like D.B. Cooper that one: elusive, at least forty percent mythical, villainous and selfish--almost to the point where it’s impressive. Like an accomplishment more than a character flaw. Yeah, I’d gladly watch her overparent for sport.

This is why at some point in the near future I’m breaking up with Holly J:

Over the course of my life, I’ve been in love with no less than fifty female characters. From Mona Lisa Vito in My Cousin Vinny to Nic Cage’s mom in National Treasure 2: Absurd Lies About The Past, I get temporarily floored by random actresses before I come upon the next flavor of the week. Like a true player, I love ‘em and leave ‘em, and by this time next year, Holly J will be about as important as that blonde chick from NBC‘s highly forgettable Hang Time. But right now--at this second--there’s not one person I’d rather J on.