Chris vs. Rene: Learning to Ride a Motorcycle

Motorcycles have always appealed to me. I've spent my life dreaming about how awesome and badass I could look if only I ever met someone who would teach me how to ride without killing myself or separating my legs from the rest of my body. Much to my delight, a friend of mine recently bought a bike and even offered to let Chris and I try to ride it.

I was fricken thrilled.

Just the mere thought of me potentially learning how to ride a motorcycle had me googling the sexiest chick bike outfits I could find, and plotting out which helmet would make me look the coolest. Chris was pretty excited, too. I assume not to the same degree - after all, he didn't google sexy chick bike outfits - but it had been a desire of his, too.

So our friend came over, brought the motorcycle to our backyard, and showed me how to work it, then told me to try and do circles in the grass.

This is what happened:


I hardly made it a whole foot before I stalled it and toppled over.

Chris on the other hand...



... is a giant douchebag who is naturally amazing at whatever the hell he touches. I think I might even be dating a robot.



And no, I still have not learned how to ride a freaking motorcycle.

Dora's a Needy Hobag

Does anyone else find Dora a bit NEEDY? Like seriously, where would she be without me? She couldn't even count to 5 in Spanish without my help. And I'm always doing favours for her and getting NO credit. Like today, she needed me to help her open the door to the treehouse, because it was stuck, right? She and Boots couldn't do it by themselves, so I join in and, bam! the thing opens, right? But for some fucking reason, everyone starts screaming "HOORAY DORA!" and I'm like... wth?!

Mittens the Cat

There are three types of people in the world: Dog People, Cat People and Sad, Lonely People. Dog people are stereotypically happy families, bitter old men, and sometimes, sadistic teenage boys. And then there's cat people, which tend to be more like lonely elderly women, people who go brain dead at the sight of a furry little kitten, and pedophiles.



Personally, I have always been a cat person. Ever since I was young, whenever I see a cat, a wave of exuberance mixed with loss of cognition has washed over me. I could be in the middle of a completely intelligent conversation and be brought down to a vegetable state at the mere sight of a feline.



And it's this trait of mine exactly that caused me to completely destroy the life and happiness of my eldest sister's cat.

His name was Mittens. Actually, I have no idea what his name was, Mittens was just the first thing that came to my head. Regardless, Mittens was a happy cat. He loved sunshine, smiles, rainbows and rollerskating. He danced with unicorns and had ambitions to become the first cat Prime Minister of Canada.



He had a bright, happy future ahead of him, until he met me.

But I did what any other eccentric, cat-loving kid did, and "over-loved", which is the nice way of saying I chased, cornered, and mauled the shit out of that cat until it hated all of humanity and spent the rest of it's life plotting destroy me and all of mankind in whatever way it was capable.





But if you're shedding tears for Mittens, you can stop right now. Because I can assure you that even after growing up and attempting to reconcile with Mittens, he made sure to get his revenge and successfully tortured me throughout my adult existence.



Mittens: 1 - Rene: 0

Baby Spiders Are Worse

Wild animals and I don't really mix. Actually, it's not even just animals, it's also fish, insects, you name it. Basically, if it's living and undomesticated, you can pretty much guarantee it hates me and is waiting to ruin my life.

The first wild-creature trauma that I really remember was when I was about 8 years old and sitting on our porch waiting for the carpool to my ninja school, blissfully anticipating the bloody carnage I was sure to inflict on the other children.



It was then I noticed this random, earthy ball shape on the window sill at the front of the house. Naturally, my young mind began questioning it's identity and for some reason, my theories centered around completely positive things. It was a funny rock. It was an enchanted meteor. It was a furry, balled up animal. It was definitely not a nest of evil life sucking creatures plotting to destroy me.

So I poked it.



And then my life was ruined forever.

Because it was actually a fucking spider nest and suddenly hundreds of angry baby spiders charged up my arm.



My first reaction was to start smacking them off using the arm the infant spiders hadn't yet claimed, but it became evident that I was too severely out numbered to simply smack the spiders off a few at a time. My only option left was to flail around the lawn and hope that if the force wasn't enough to loosen their grip on me, that maybe instead they'd assume I had an abhorrent mental disease which would weaken their desire to eat me.

By the time my carpool arrived, I looked more like the survivor of an apocalypse as opposed to a kid who met some spiders.



And while I thought that I had survived the worst of it, it became obvious that the worst had yet to come. Because shortly after hopping into the car, and pulling away, there was this slight tingle on my skin, growing more and more noticeable, and had the very distinct feeling of hundreds of little legs crawling all over me.

In the backseat, I began searching for any stray spiders that had hidden themselves away before I could get to them, all while trying to maintain a cool, 8-year-old composure as to not alert the other people around me. But no matter which direction I tore my uniform in, I could never find any additional spiders.

And that basically went on all night.

While other kids were practicing their high blocks and low kicks, I was in the corner, slowly festering into a dementia caused by the sensation of creepy, crawly legs that I could not find.



...and then I died of mental instability. Because seriously, you don't survive that shit.