Karin’s Warning Labels – According to Neil

I’ve been told a shit ton couple of times that I should come with a warning label. If I plan on any kind of relationship with someone (friends or otherwise), they should be sufficiently warned so that they can make an educated decision before being sucked into the super fun whirlwind that is my life.

So I figure I should just create a blog entry with the “warnings” in it, and then I can just link it and consider that warning enough!

So, without further procrastination, these are the warnings Neil has deemed important enough to make people aware of:

Ok, in all fairness, this is really vague. Most relationships induce vomiting and aren’t complete without several fits of rage. Otherwise it’s boring as fuck. So I call bullshit on this warning. Let’s move on.

This has to be perception based. I don’t have crazy logic. I have Karin logic. And if you give me the chance, I will explain why Karin logic makes complete sense. Like, the following statement is true:

I’m genetically a surgeon – my father was a surgeon before I was conceived, therefore the medical knowledge is locked in my genetics. I don’t need 10 years of schooling and a fancy degree to amputate your arm, leg or face. Just trust me. I AM A DOCTOR.

That is not crazy logic. It’s just science.

I feel my response to this “warning” already answered it and made it null and void, so we’ll move on.

Ok this one I just don’t even know his own reasoning, so I can’t argue it. I think I’m low maintenance. In fact, I’ve been told my bar of expectations is so low that pretty much any douchebag can walk over it with no issues, so I’m just going to say this is Neil being crazy. MOVING ON!

This is true. I do always want stories. SO FUCKING WHAT!

That’s it?

Damn.

In all fairness, I get this one. HOWEVER! Neil once said to me he was glad I didn’t drink, because the shit I do sober is hard enough to explain. So take that with a grain of salt.

I don’t do Karaoke because, well… You know when a cat is in heat and screams bloody murder, and there’s a blender running in the background and then some drunk hobo screaming for everyone to shut up? That sounds 10,000x better than me. I’m doing you a favour, potentially future friend. And the seafood is self-explanatory.

My dancing is the physical action version of my singing. YOU’RE WELCOME.

I have big boobs. I may or may not wear a low cut top, depending on my wardrobe choice that day. Deal with it.

True. This is a legit warning that I can 100% stand behind.

Another true story. But hey, if you do something that pisses me off, the likelihood I will forgive you is pretty high, right????

 

This is a constant struggle between the two of us. I want real ponies, he only offers dead ones. I don’t feel the ponies thing is an obsession, it’s just a constant disagreement which is why it comes up a lot. IF YOU GAVE ME A FUCKING PONY, THIS WOULDN’T BE A GODDAMN ISSUE!

And finally…

Yeah that’s true too. Well, that wraps up our list. You’ve been warned.

**end of warning**

The Fiat Gang

I don’t know if you ever noticed, but motorcyclists seem to be part of some elite gang. Seriously. Watch them cross paths next time (obviously as long as it’s safe to do so, don’t go causing accidents by being one of those douchebags that can’t focus on the road and their surroundings).

They wave to each other. Almost EVERY time on regular roads… On highways they don’t acknowledge each other because they’re focusing on driving. We all know motorcyclists for the most part are dickbag drivers (they get the same manual as BMW drivers with their vehicle purchase, I’m sure):

But over all, they are mostly aware of their surroundings and only do their gang salute when it’s safe (for them) to do so.

Which brings me to my next discovery. Apparently Fiat drivers are a gang too.

For those of you that don’t know me (my Google stats say that I have people from random countries like Iran and Nigeria as my “viewers”), I drive a Fiat.

A small Fiat. One of those little ones that has 2 doors.

It’s also a standard. Which means it goes pretty darn fast. I say that it goes fast because it’s a standard since I tried the 2 door automatic, and holy fuck it was not fast. I mean, it eventually got there but it showed up fashionably late.

My car may be super-fast, but because it’s super small, being stuck in rush hour is terrifying. This is what I see behind me:

And my side mirror:

Anyways. I digress.

I’ve recently discovered that every time I pass another 2 door Fiat going the opposite direction, the other driver nods at me. Not just a regular nod, but some kind of smug, straight lipped, stern stare nod. Something like this:

I’m not currently capable of doing that without about 6 re-takes, so every time I do attempt to nod back, I probably look mostly retarded, but I will get there one day! Until then, I will look totally bitchin’ bad assed driving my car:

Sort of. As I mentioned before, I have a crazy amount of hair.  I had to take that photo while strategically parked. When I drive, I usually have the windows down (because I’m hardcore like that), which causes my lovely hair to fly fucking EVERYWHERE, so when I try to do my nod, it probably looks more like this:

And less like this:

But! I am part of a gang. And we are taking the country by tiny, economical storm!!!! Seriously, check out that head room back there:

The Monster Within

We all have them.

This raging beast that slumbers deep within us… waiting for the one moment it can break free of the chains of common sense, intelligence, and in some cases, being a decent human being that binds them deep down in their dark dark hole. But they’re there. Waiting. Waiting to be released.

A prime example of this would be people who RAGE when they are hungry. They could be warm and friendly most of the time, but once hunger hits, BAM! RAGE BEAST ASSUMES ITS ULTIMATE FORM!

I know a few who suffer from this (most likely a few reading this right now [HI! YES, I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU!]). Their beast is nothing compared to mine. I know, I know. I’m the nicest, sweetest, most lovable person in the entire world… most of the time.

Until she strikes. My internal rage monster. Urina. Yes. Urina.

I, my friends, suffer from pee rage. Not just any old pee rage either. Complete and utter nonsensical, murderous rage, only brought forth when I have to pee.

If I’m in a car and have to pee, you better hope to fucking God that I am the driver. If not, prepare yourself for the onslaught or random bullshit insults that will come out of my mouth, directed at anyone and everyone.

If we’re on an especially long stretch of road, and even if I’m the driver, you’re not safe. URINA WILL STRIKE. Seriously, no one is safe.

That’s right. She’s rude, and cruel and super fucking slightly racist. Please note that THIS is what’s happening on the inside when she strikes:

I’d take the hunger beast over Urina any day.

Neil’s Master Plan

As we all remember, I have a wonderful friend named Neil. He’s the star of this blog, this one, and this one.

And now, he’s the star of this one!

YAY NEIL!

Recently, we found ourselves waiting in line for a night market (don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll blog about that crazy adventure another time), and we were discussing how much I wanted to go to the water slides. And I have for years (literally… like 5 years).

I should probably mention that at this point in our evening, Neil was fucking drunk “slightly tipsy”.

He decided we should break into the water slides (which were closed at this point) so that we could go down them and not wait in line. It basically went like this:

Followed by this:

And when I explained the cops would show up:

Why would we do that????

**yes, all cops in my life should be shirtless… ok most cops… ok these stick figure cops**

I guess that’s pretty sound logic. But then we’d be at the waterslides and would be going down them (if we could figure out how to turn that shit on… I mean, it’s high school drop outs and 14 yr olds running them, so it has to be easy… right?) and it would be easy enough for them to catch Neil.

Nope. Neil has a plan for that too:

So I’m just hearing that music you hear in British comedies (this) while these cops run around chasing Neil (at this point, I would have Karin-ja’d myself out of there) and yes, I imagine them all as bobbies:

Followed by this:

And then this:

And to prove this is legitimately his plan: