I was recently walking in a public place with my friend. I forget where it was, but we passed a completely normal looking girl. She was a girl I would have ignored and forgot forever. However, as we passed by, she muttered, “Hah Ginge.” I looked around and realized I was, in fact, the only red head around. Really? Is my hair that amusing? I know pale kids with orange hair and faces eaten by freckles are funny looking, but come on. I’m not even pale. I’m pretty tan, and my hair is more orange-brown than orange. The freckles on my face aren’t even that noticeable. I kept walking and thinking. Is my identity forever lost to the word Ginger? That’s when I realized the answer to that question was kind of. There is an unavoidable and painstakingly heavy burden that I carry, as all Gingers do, and that bitch knows nothing about it.
I just bought the last Stieg Larsson novel, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest, and I am glad to say that, so far, the pages are turning quickly. I read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire in about a week, and since then I’ve been going through Lisbeth Salander withdrawal. It feels good to get my fix again.
It was an unusually good day at work this morning; the swim club was running smoothly, until an unidentified boy took a crap on the toilet instead of in it. I had to take care of the situation, and I will tell you that if I ever find out who did it, unspeakable things will happen to that child.