THIS LETTER SERVES PURPOSE. The bold, Impact font stood out on the post office bulletin board among the business cards, upcoming community yard sales sign, and directly below a sloppily handwritten "lost cat" flyer. The loosely hung, 8 by 11 piece of paper whipped in the wind each time the glass door swung open. There were tabs cut unevenly at the bottom, a few missing, with just an address listed. The smaller typeface read:
Can you keep up?
SWF late 30's, seeking above average male(in every aspect).
6pm Friday. Seasonal work.
"Who hangs something like this in a post office?" Jack mused out loud, to himself.
"I imagine a frail blonde woman, with small hands, who speaks in broken English and has a weak constitution" a soft voice said, popping out from behind a row of package lockers.
"See, I think this woman has some confidence. She's direct and determined. She likes to shop locally, and you have to appreciate that in-your-face innuendo. Plus the inherent mystery of 'is it a personals ad, is it some secret escort code, or is it just a poorly worded posting for some landscape work?'" Jack smiled, glancing at the woman out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful. Dark brown eyes, olive skin, and shoulder length, jet black hair with streaks of blonde. One half of her "Bettie Page" bangs dyed snowy white. She adjusted her square framed glasses and looked him up and down.
Trying not to stare, but wanting enough mental snapshots of this woman to fantasize about later, Jacks eyes darted from the ground, to the woman, to the poster, back to the woman. He blushed, "looks like some suckers have taken the bait though, even the 9's look like tiny fishhooks on a bobber" pointing to the torn away slats.
"Hmmmmm... okay, now tell me about this one" she said pointing to the lost cat flyer.
"Bah, that one's easy" clearing his throat. "Recently rescued, but not quite comfortable around the family doberman, or the overly affectionate 9 year old who stuffed him in a dollhouse for 6 hours upon arrival, this Tom cat saw the open 2nd floor window as an escape route and an acceptable risk of bodily harm to jump from that height, to flee from his captors" Jack said, grinning cleverly because he knew it was the truth. He had heard the entire story between the 9 year old and her waitress at the diner this morning over breakfast when she hung her flyer there.
"But it's a calico?" tilting her head slightly left.
"So?" he asked, confused.
"99% of the time the calico is female. You said Tom cat" she informed.
'Shit' he thought. 'Missed that one'.
"Thanks for playing and better luck next time" she said in a lower register with a game show host inflection, on her way out the door.
"Wait.." he yelled, "I didn't catch your name. Would you want to get a beer sometime?" Jack asked, ignoring all the stranger danger alarms going off in his head and pissing into the wind.
"Sure" she smiled, "Grab a tab."
12.10.2014
11.27.2014
Whoa Is Me (snippet)
The slight slur of the white haired teachers voice gave the indication he had kissed the flask in his coat pocket a few times in between classes at North High School, and the first night here at Columbus State Community College. His red nose that didn't change color with warmth told me it wasn't his first drink today. Brushing snow off his tweed jacket, his shaking hands wrote on the chalkboard, Mr. Salome. "Pronounced Mister Sal-oh-may. Not Sal-ohm, Sal... oh... may." "Now, for the first couple weeks I ask that when you speak, you first remind me of your name. This will be my 3rd year teaching this creative writing class.." he continued.
And with that I learned everything I needed to know about mister "Sal... oh... may". Divorced 4 years ago, mid 50's Sal here figured out that with his English teachers salary split in half, after his second failed marriage, he'd only have to work 23 more years to be able to afford to die alone in a retirement home, but picking up some night courses he could keep his comfortable lifestyle in the suburbs,passing out in his recliner each night with his faux leather shoes on.
"The difference in non-fiction vs fiction is information vs emotion" he read off his notes. "What we're going to focus on this semester is the emotion of prose. Prose is the romance of the relationship."
"Prose is pornography for cynics" I sarcastically interject.
Looking up from his folder, I can see the defeat in his eyes. Poor Sal just wanted to rattle off his prepared notes, take a few questions, and get back to his whiskey affair. "What's that? Mister...?"
"Sorry, Gilbert, but everyone calls me 'Gills'. I said there's no excitement in prose. Prose is a 3D printer with pre-programmed goals. It's efficiency is in the set of rules it's bound by. Completing a task perfectly, and moving on to the next project. I don't want to be a printer, I want to be a sculptor. I want the block of clay under my hands that I can shape with my only boundaries being the limitations of my imagination. The imperfections are the personalization of my piece."
The 18 year old's I'm surrounded by all roll their eyes at the 30 year old who thinks he's more clever than he actually is, and under their breath I hear "what an asshole". And with that, they've learned everything they need to know about me.
1.05.2014
9 Things You Might Not Know About Me
1. I've played the guitar for a little over 20 years. I'm strangely self-conscious of it. I say strangely, because I will comfortably mingle at parties in underwear or naked.(Nudity is my staple ice beaker/pick-up line/punchline.) But, I get nervous at the thought of performing anything in public. So I'll stick to posting youtube videos of cover songs once a year.
2. I sleep wearing slippers.
3. I like my snaggletooth, 98% of the time. The other 2%, are those moments the first time I meet someone I'm interested in. Primal instincts kick in with a need to hide my flaws, and not scare off a potential future mate, so most of my smiles will be closed mouth. Otherwise, I wear it proudly, as a badge of individuality.
4. I am agoraphobic. I started having panic attacks around 14 years ago, before every other commercial on t.v. was an advertisement for a new anxiety medication, and I had no idea what the problem was. I let it go for years without telling anyone, until eventually it got so bad that I spent around 7 months where I didn't leave the house.
5. I've earned the reputation I have. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but it doesn't define who I am now. I like the stories I have to tell, and the lessons I get out of retelling them. I'm still learning, and I hope the definition of who I am a few years from now is a better person.
6. I got my nipple pierced in the summer of 1998 in Daytona Beach, Florida. I had it done on the second day of an 8 day vacation, passed out when it happened, and was carried to my hotel where I spent 6 hours sleeping in the lobby. The remaining vacation I didn't leave the hotel room, and spent 2 weeks sick at home until I took it out. I now have an irrational fear of needles.
7. I would like to write something of substance, someday. I've taken around a dozen writing classes/workshops online in the last year. I think I have a unique view of the world, and an entertaining experience pool to draw from. Not living up to my own judgement is one of my biggest fears.
8. I spend hours a day in the youtube wormhole, watching spoken word/slam poetry videos, 90's billiards matches, fail compilations, and live performances of obscure musicians.
9. I am not living up to my potential.
2. I sleep wearing slippers.
3. I like my snaggletooth, 98% of the time. The other 2%, are those moments the first time I meet someone I'm interested in. Primal instincts kick in with a need to hide my flaws, and not scare off a potential future mate, so most of my smiles will be closed mouth. Otherwise, I wear it proudly, as a badge of individuality.
4. I am agoraphobic. I started having panic attacks around 14 years ago, before every other commercial on t.v. was an advertisement for a new anxiety medication, and I had no idea what the problem was. I let it go for years without telling anyone, until eventually it got so bad that I spent around 7 months where I didn't leave the house.
5. I've earned the reputation I have. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but it doesn't define who I am now. I like the stories I have to tell, and the lessons I get out of retelling them. I'm still learning, and I hope the definition of who I am a few years from now is a better person.
6. I got my nipple pierced in the summer of 1998 in Daytona Beach, Florida. I had it done on the second day of an 8 day vacation, passed out when it happened, and was carried to my hotel where I spent 6 hours sleeping in the lobby. The remaining vacation I didn't leave the hotel room, and spent 2 weeks sick at home until I took it out. I now have an irrational fear of needles.
7. I would like to write something of substance, someday. I've taken around a dozen writing classes/workshops online in the last year. I think I have a unique view of the world, and an entertaining experience pool to draw from. Not living up to my own judgement is one of my biggest fears.
8. I spend hours a day in the youtube wormhole, watching spoken word/slam poetry videos, 90's billiards matches, fail compilations, and live performances of obscure musicians.
9. I am not living up to my potential.
8.07.2013
Whoa Is Me. (Chapter 1)(Character Introductions)(Rough Draft v2)
"I'm gonna tell you a story about Gilbert Hayden. And I'm gonna tell you the story in "first person", because perspective changes everything."
The Ohio winters brutal January air turned my cheeks a matching shade of red to the scarlet OSU toboggan covering my ears. Pulling the cap off, and stuffing it into the pocket of my jean jacket, I caught a glimpse of my disheveled appearance in the Coors mirror as I walked into "Enablers Saloon".
"You'd make one beautiful hobo" I thought to myself, pulling the triggers on my two loaded finger pistols.
Quickly scanning the room, I focused my attention on a middle aged couple being served their food. Still shaking from the cold, I rubbed my hands messily through my hair and headed towards their table. After a glance over my shoulder and a deep breath, I waited for the waitress to leave as I slid in the empty booth next to them.
With a concerned look painted on my face, I quickly whispered, "listen, you two look like nice people, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd hate for you to get caught up in...."
At that exact moment the brass bell above the entry door chimed. Their gaze followed my nervous eyes as I shifted to watch a long haired, thick bearded, grizzly man walking in carrying a motorcycle helmet painted with a flaming letter P, a matching set to the P patch sewn on my jean jacket. Slowly unzipping and reaching inside his black leather coat, the intimidating figure carried his 6' 6" frame with purpose towards the bartender. His leather boots crunched and squealed with each step, only pausing for a brief moment to turn and watch the middle aged couple trip over a pub table as they scurried out the door. The waitress walked back out from the kitchen and recognized the familiar scene.
"Dammit Gill! You're paying for the tip on that shit this time!" she bellowed, "and you're 25 minutes late, asshole!".
"Put it on my tab" I mouthed, flashing a car salesman smile, while picking up the bacon double cheeseburger triumphantly. "Hey Chuck" I yelled, motioning to the large, bearded man, "you want some fries?"
"Did you just pull your second "Rope-a-Dope" this week?" Chuck said with a laugh. "You're gonna run out of suckers to keep falling for that".
Anthony Charles Britton was one of my best friends. A self-described, aspiring stand up comic, who had never been behind a microphone, but gave himself the stage-name "Fat Tony". We all called him "Too Much Chuck", for his loudmouthed alter ego after he had a few beers in him. His dark sense of humor was a bit much for most normal people to stomach, but our group of friends had been conditioned to it. His was definitely an abrasive personality, but we were his biggest fans, and I was forever indebted to him from a childhood incident that I'll get into later.
"I've got a new bit I'm working on, lemme test it out" he said, grinning like a child showing off a new toy.
His decibel level always went up a notch when he went into "Fat Tony" mode. Throwing on his sunglasses, he cleared his throat,
"It's a strange point in every 13 year old boys life when the Fruedian complex kicks in and you realize you want to sleep with your mother" he said fighting back a smile. "Especially since mine was in a wheelchair. Putting on the brakes in that relationship just meant she couldn't roll away!"
"Ba-dum-tshhh" the waitress groaned, popping out from around the corner. "He's been been dying to get that one out all week" she said, kissing Chuck on the cheek.
"Ahh c'mon babe, that's grade-A comedy beef right there, right Gill?" he eagerly asked, looking for approval.
"Nah Trish, it's funny." "I just don't know what kind of crowd you think you're going to appeal to with jokes like that... when you do finally get up on stage" I said, jabbing at his stage fright.
Trish was Chuck's longtime girlfriend, new roommate, and 12 weeks pregnant with their first child. She waitressed at night and spent her days working on finishing her nursing degree. Theirs wasn't a storybook romance, but more of a Jeckyl and Hyde. Colliding personalities, but in the end, they were the same person.
"Don't egg him on, he's gonna have an extra mouth to feed shortly, and open mic's don't pay the bills" she pleaded.
"Who's doing open mic's?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm goin straight to Madison Square Garden to film my HBO comedy special".
"Alright lovebirds" I interjected, " I gotta go play barback. Trish, have you seen Sydnee tonight?"
Sydnee was my business partner, as the other half owner of "Enablers". He was "the voice of reason" in our group, and even only being a few years older, he was a responsible father figure to all of us. We bought this place around 4 years ago, with low expectations and out of fear of having to focus on an actual career someday. Things were going good with profits finally in the black, but neither one of us were retiring anytime soon. He was also my soon to be brother-in-law, and one of my oldest friends.
"He ran to pick up our liquor order, but Saydee's in the office, doin' the books" Trish said, pointing upstairs.
Saydee Stills, my beautiful fiance. I joked when we were 10 years old that I was going to marry her someday, and it only took 18 years for the timing to be right. She graduated from the University of Michigan with an accounting degree, and in most circles, with me being an OSU grad, our relationship was likened to a 1950's interracial marriage. I had to take some beatings for it, verbally and physically, but she was worth every bruised ego, and broken nose, both times.
The Ohio winters brutal January air turned my cheeks a matching shade of red to the scarlet OSU toboggan covering my ears. Pulling the cap off, and stuffing it into the pocket of my jean jacket, I caught a glimpse of my disheveled appearance in the Coors mirror as I walked into "Enablers Saloon".
"You'd make one beautiful hobo" I thought to myself, pulling the triggers on my two loaded finger pistols.
Quickly scanning the room, I focused my attention on a middle aged couple being served their food. Still shaking from the cold, I rubbed my hands messily through my hair and headed towards their table. After a glance over my shoulder and a deep breath, I waited for the waitress to leave as I slid in the empty booth next to them.
With a concerned look painted on my face, I quickly whispered, "listen, you two look like nice people, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd hate for you to get caught up in...."
At that exact moment the brass bell above the entry door chimed. Their gaze followed my nervous eyes as I shifted to watch a long haired, thick bearded, grizzly man walking in carrying a motorcycle helmet painted with a flaming letter P, a matching set to the P patch sewn on my jean jacket. Slowly unzipping and reaching inside his black leather coat, the intimidating figure carried his 6' 6" frame with purpose towards the bartender. His leather boots crunched and squealed with each step, only pausing for a brief moment to turn and watch the middle aged couple trip over a pub table as they scurried out the door. The waitress walked back out from the kitchen and recognized the familiar scene.
"Dammit Gill! You're paying for the tip on that shit this time!" she bellowed, "and you're 25 minutes late, asshole!".
"Put it on my tab" I mouthed, flashing a car salesman smile, while picking up the bacon double cheeseburger triumphantly. "Hey Chuck" I yelled, motioning to the large, bearded man, "you want some fries?"
"Did you just pull your second "Rope-a-Dope" this week?" Chuck said with a laugh. "You're gonna run out of suckers to keep falling for that".
Anthony Charles Britton was one of my best friends. A self-described, aspiring stand up comic, who had never been behind a microphone, but gave himself the stage-name "Fat Tony". We all called him "Too Much Chuck", for his loudmouthed alter ego after he had a few beers in him. His dark sense of humor was a bit much for most normal people to stomach, but our group of friends had been conditioned to it. His was definitely an abrasive personality, but we were his biggest fans, and I was forever indebted to him from a childhood incident that I'll get into later.
"I've got a new bit I'm working on, lemme test it out" he said, grinning like a child showing off a new toy.
His decibel level always went up a notch when he went into "Fat Tony" mode. Throwing on his sunglasses, he cleared his throat,
"It's a strange point in every 13 year old boys life when the Fruedian complex kicks in and you realize you want to sleep with your mother" he said fighting back a smile. "Especially since mine was in a wheelchair. Putting on the brakes in that relationship just meant she couldn't roll away!"
"Ba-dum-tshhh" the waitress groaned, popping out from around the corner. "He's been been dying to get that one out all week" she said, kissing Chuck on the cheek.
"Ahh c'mon babe, that's grade-A comedy beef right there, right Gill?" he eagerly asked, looking for approval.
"Nah Trish, it's funny." "I just don't know what kind of crowd you think you're going to appeal to with jokes like that... when you do finally get up on stage" I said, jabbing at his stage fright.
Trish was Chuck's longtime girlfriend, new roommate, and 12 weeks pregnant with their first child. She waitressed at night and spent her days working on finishing her nursing degree. Theirs wasn't a storybook romance, but more of a Jeckyl and Hyde. Colliding personalities, but in the end, they were the same person.
"Don't egg him on, he's gonna have an extra mouth to feed shortly, and open mic's don't pay the bills" she pleaded.
"Who's doing open mic's?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm goin straight to Madison Square Garden to film my HBO comedy special".
"Alright lovebirds" I interjected, " I gotta go play barback. Trish, have you seen Sydnee tonight?"
Sydnee was my business partner, as the other half owner of "Enablers". He was "the voice of reason" in our group, and even only being a few years older, he was a responsible father figure to all of us. We bought this place around 4 years ago, with low expectations and out of fear of having to focus on an actual career someday. Things were going good with profits finally in the black, but neither one of us were retiring anytime soon. He was also my soon to be brother-in-law, and one of my oldest friends.
"He ran to pick up our liquor order, but Saydee's in the office, doin' the books" Trish said, pointing upstairs.
Saydee Stills, my beautiful fiance. I joked when we were 10 years old that I was going to marry her someday, and it only took 18 years for the timing to be right. She graduated from the University of Michigan with an accounting degree, and in most circles, with me being an OSU grad, our relationship was likened to a 1950's interracial marriage. I had to take some beatings for it, verbally and physically, but she was worth every bruised ego, and broken nose, both times.
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet."
I like to believe there's a Normal Rockwell-esque parallel universe, where our names are the literal definitions of our identity. Our fathers are all named "Earnest", serious, showing conviction and full of zeal. Our mothers are named "Daisy", like the delicate flower, fragile in a strong breeze, but always standing tall. Our brothers, "Buddy", are honest and loyal to a fault. Our sisters are named "Charity", selfless, giving and kind. Then there's our best friends, "Richard", which is also accurate. This is the only world where the name "Pilot Inspektor" has any real value.
1.15.2012
Dating over 30 is a lot like being a hotel bellboy, "Excuse me mam, may I carry your baggage?"
Slacker. I just realized it's been over 3 years since updating my Match.com profile. As a 33 year old man who's spent the majority of the last 10 years being single, you get used to being lonely. I've sampled a few different flavors, and taken a few test drives, been in love, and in hate. And I've come to the realization that women are godly creatures, confusing, and worthy of praise as long as you find the right deity. The right description of myself should be guaranteed to increase wetness for some Divine being. Here's my renovated biography:
Columbus.craigslist.org>For Sale>Free
"Don't wait, act now, this amazing offer won't last long. Up for grabs is one slightly used, but broken in old soul. This innocent looking baby face is a masterful disguise for the high mileage, and daily wear and tear on these aged bones. I am weakened at the bends, but not yet broken. Most of my time is spent between perfecting my functioning alcoholism, avid masturbation, and moonlighting as a nudist superhero. I have a snaggletooth, sometimes sleep wearing slippers, and love animals. I am circumcised, skilled with nunchucks, and a generous lover. I am honest, almost to a fault. I have an affinity for short haired brunettes, and a magnetism to those, lightly "touched" by hysteria. I am currently working on a genetic code to shrink humans by 97% to breed a master race of seahorse jockeys, and on a rainy Saturday afternoon it would not be unlikely to find me picketing alongside amputees against the discrimination of the Hokey Pokey. If you feel like you could keep up on this roller coaster to greatness, find me on facebook, I'd love to have a partner in crime."
Does this narrative make me sound too picky?
Columbus.craigslist.org>For Sale>Free
"Don't wait, act now, this amazing offer won't last long. Up for grabs is one slightly used, but broken in old soul. This innocent looking baby face is a masterful disguise for the high mileage, and daily wear and tear on these aged bones. I am weakened at the bends, but not yet broken. Most of my time is spent between perfecting my functioning alcoholism, avid masturbation, and moonlighting as a nudist superhero. I have a snaggletooth, sometimes sleep wearing slippers, and love animals. I am circumcised, skilled with nunchucks, and a generous lover. I am honest, almost to a fault. I have an affinity for short haired brunettes, and a magnetism to those, lightly "touched" by hysteria. I am currently working on a genetic code to shrink humans by 97% to breed a master race of seahorse jockeys, and on a rainy Saturday afternoon it would not be unlikely to find me picketing alongside amputees against the discrimination of the Hokey Pokey. If you feel like you could keep up on this roller coaster to greatness, find me on facebook, I'd love to have a partner in crime."
Does this narrative make me sound too picky?
1.06.2012
God's Punchlines
Close your eyes and picture this(don't actually close your eyes, keep reading).
Imagine a colorless world. A playground, packed with children, all with hair, skin, and eyes the purest white you've ever seen. Innocent, and eagerly awaiting their turn on the slide, a dark tunnel ready to deliver these precious angels to anxiously awaiting parents in maternity wards all over the world. God, in whatever form you envision him, is sitting at the top. There is a pair of scissors and an endless box of straws beside him. He pulls out a single straw and cuts it into three uneven pieces. A group of children, excited and nervous step forward. God holds out his fist, and in front of him holds the three straws, all evenly as not to reveal their sizes.
"Go ahead, don't be afraid", his baritone voice gives a calming effect. The first child inches forward and pulls a medium straw from the giant stone hands. "Good choice" the voice booms. God lays his hand on the boy's shoulder, turning his skin a golden bronze, hair black, and eyes brown. He shuffles the boy forward and directs him into the darkness.
Next, a girl approaches, chances slimming, but still hopeful. Her frail hand grabs a straw. Hesitant and wavering, she pulls the long straw and gives a shining grin of relief. "Excellent" God says in an approving tone. He pats her on the head, ruffling the long locks that turn to a sunshine yellow, and eyes vivid blue. No need for direction, the girl runs and springs head first into the chute.
The last boy, defeated before he even got a chance, trudges up to his Maker. Dejected and demoralized, he pulls the short straw, knowing what looms. A swift pat on the back lurches the boy forward, turning his hair a luminous shade of copper orange, eyes green, and skin a shade even lighter than the purest white you tried to imagine. "Better luck next time kid", the voice gives the most genuine laugh in the history of laughter, as the boy fades into oblivion.
gin·ger/ˈjinjər/
1. Noun: A hot fragrant spice made from the rhizome of a plant. It is chopped or powdered for cooking, preserved in syrup, or candied.
2. Verb: To treat or flavor with ginger
3. Adj: A derogatory term for any supposed human bearing reddish/orange hair. Genetically inferior and lacking the melanin necessary to sustain long periods in the sunlight, these mythical beasts are normally shamed into lives of ridicule and seclusion.
The word "Ginger" is the "N word" of our generation. Twenty-five years from now school children will be given detention for being overheard in class saying "ginga please", only to defend themselves with, "I'm allowed to say it, one of my best friends is ginger". If humans as a species ate their young, gingers would be a mother's first meal post-birth, to spare them a life of mockery and humiliation.
Disclaimer: This author does not promote the discrimination of any person or persons, unless they really deserve it.
Imagine a colorless world. A playground, packed with children, all with hair, skin, and eyes the purest white you've ever seen. Innocent, and eagerly awaiting their turn on the slide, a dark tunnel ready to deliver these precious angels to anxiously awaiting parents in maternity wards all over the world. God, in whatever form you envision him, is sitting at the top. There is a pair of scissors and an endless box of straws beside him. He pulls out a single straw and cuts it into three uneven pieces. A group of children, excited and nervous step forward. God holds out his fist, and in front of him holds the three straws, all evenly as not to reveal their sizes.
"Go ahead, don't be afraid", his baritone voice gives a calming effect. The first child inches forward and pulls a medium straw from the giant stone hands. "Good choice" the voice booms. God lays his hand on the boy's shoulder, turning his skin a golden bronze, hair black, and eyes brown. He shuffles the boy forward and directs him into the darkness.
Next, a girl approaches, chances slimming, but still hopeful. Her frail hand grabs a straw. Hesitant and wavering, she pulls the long straw and gives a shining grin of relief. "Excellent" God says in an approving tone. He pats her on the head, ruffling the long locks that turn to a sunshine yellow, and eyes vivid blue. No need for direction, the girl runs and springs head first into the chute.
The last boy, defeated before he even got a chance, trudges up to his Maker. Dejected and demoralized, he pulls the short straw, knowing what looms. A swift pat on the back lurches the boy forward, turning his hair a luminous shade of copper orange, eyes green, and skin a shade even lighter than the purest white you tried to imagine. "Better luck next time kid", the voice gives the most genuine laugh in the history of laughter, as the boy fades into oblivion.
gin·ger/ˈjinjər/
1. Noun: A hot fragrant spice made from the rhizome of a plant. It is chopped or powdered for cooking, preserved in syrup, or candied.
2. Verb: To treat or flavor with ginger
3. Adj: A derogatory term for any supposed human bearing reddish/orange hair. Genetically inferior and lacking the melanin necessary to sustain long periods in the sunlight, these mythical beasts are normally shamed into lives of ridicule and seclusion.
The word "Ginger" is the "N word" of our generation. Twenty-five years from now school children will be given detention for being overheard in class saying "ginga please", only to defend themselves with, "I'm allowed to say it, one of my best friends is ginger". If humans as a species ate their young, gingers would be a mother's first meal post-birth, to spare them a life of mockery and humiliation.
Disclaimer: This author does not promote the discrimination of any person or persons, unless they really deserve it.
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