I scream FIRE in crowded rooms....

There is a certain sense of understanding us Ginger kids need to come to terms with as we mature into adulthood. We are consistently under the microscope as we walk into a room. I know that might sound as if I am making a vain assumption but it is the truth. Redheads are but a mere 1% of the human population so I guess it only makes sense that people would take notice in a room full of all you regular people. As if our heightened sensitivities to pain and UV rays weren't enough, then we have to deal with the general public.

I can only speak for myself but, I am at a breaking point with the liberties people take when having a conversation with me. "Does the carpet match the drapes?" There's nothing worse than hearing that question. First, it's inappropriate in any social setting. Second, how stupid could you possibly be to not already know the answer to that question. Third, you have just made it clear that you are either after me sexually or are an incredibly unintelligent fucktard with no social skills. Fourth, well there is no fourth because I have already rolled my eyes at you and walked away without providing a response.

When hitting on a redhead, NEVER say "I have a thing for Redheads." It's a blatantly sexual statement that may or may not work for you but, if scientific studies are correct, that ginger snap will lose respect for you the moment it comes out of your mouth. We are a cunning and mean spirited people with very little patience for your ulterior motives. But just my own curiosity.... Why do people think that is an appropriate ice-breaker? Why not comment on my inviting blue eyes if it needs to be physical, or how about the gleaming confidence I exude into the atmosphere surrounding me as I own the room I am in? I suppose after reading that last sentence back, my confidence doesn't really need the acknowledgement. But seriously, get creative. Or don't. How about, Can I buy you a drink? I find you very attractive. What it comes down to is the simple fact that, physical statements make you look like a whoremonger. I speak for all the Gingers in saying, please stop.

I love my crimson gift and am thankful for being different. Without all this fierceness up top, who knows if I would have ever learned to love myself. I know plenty of mousey brownies that don't, and can't say I've ever met a Ginger who didn't have a strong sense of self. My hope is that the 99% of you who don't understand what it feels like to be us will take some pointers from this blog. And to the 1% of you lonely rojo souls, continue to scream 'FIRE' in crowded rooms.

Cigarette Warning Labels

I blogged about the new warning labels back in November. My stance on the photo labels has gone from a slightly aloof version of annoyance to incredibly angry. See above.... what the fuck is that? a blowhole? I mean, come on. Did the FDA run out of funding for a decent graphic designer? I feel like the Food & Drug Administration has turned into those awful bible toter's outside of an abortion clinic with their signs and hatred for people they don't even know. But at least the Jesus freaks have the balls to get a real picture of a baby in a jar on their sandwich boards. Baby in a jar? Effective. Fake blow hole? Stupid.

What annoys me most is the contempt people have for cigarette smokers, which these new labels are feeding. I have said this countless times before, I am the most respectful smoker in existence. I will walk at least 20 feet from a group of people who aren't smoking to enjoy my nicotine intake, I always wave my excess smoke away if it somehow travels toward someone and I will always knock the cherry off my cigarette to find the nearest garbage pale. I will sooner wrap a butt up in the cellophane from the pack and carry the stink nugget in my pocket until I find a pale rather than pollute a park or public area. With all of that said, I still get the occasional dirty look or ever so annoying hand-over-the-nose from a passer by. You are 20 feet away, if you can smell my smoke you have an issue with your senses and should probably have your hearing checked, asshole.

NYC recently passed a law banning smoking in parks, beaches and pedestrian plazas. For years, we have not been allowed to smoke inside and now the photo labels. Smoking is the new Gay is the new Black. And go to hell with your stupid photo labels because my new line of fierce cigarette cases featuring pictures of fabulous people smoking will be dropping by September 2012, the same roll out of the new packs.

*Side notes= Adolph Hitler imposed nationwide smoking ban in 1941. Just sayin.

I want to be Justin Bieber's new Manager

Justin friggin Bieber. His little brother / big brother relationship with Usher is forced and uncomfortable. When he first came out I was inclined to call child protective services because I couldn't understand what a grown man was doing toting around a 12 year old lesbian. That little turd wins awards left and right.... for what?! His music should only be sold to people 65 and older to be used as a replacement to prunes. This may come as a surprise but I want to be his new manager.

I see a few options for the Bieb, we'll start by having him blow lines off that little Latina girlfriend's ass in a sex tape. We will shave his head and give him a pink wig and an umbrella after a night of pumping up on roxies, then just make a call to TMZ and see what happens. It worked for Brit. There's the infamous 'accidental' wardrobe malfunction on a red carpet scheme. Why not link him to one of those girls on 16 & pregnant? It'll turn out to be a hoax and she will get sued but, entertaining? I say so. We could spike his apple juice with LSD right before an award acceptance then watch the fireworks. Something reminiscent of Anna Nicole, celebrities speaking gibberish is always top ratings. We will spend time recording a new album with Lindsay Lohan, Ke$ha and Nicki Minaj. The first single from the album will be called, "I slapped that Ho" and will feature Chris Brown. Here's where the brilliance happens. The day before the album drops, Beib will get arrested for possession of illegal narcotics after a foot tap in the men's room at LAX. Boom, a star is born.

My Ah-Ha Moment

I had one of those Oprah 'Ah-ha moments' just a few minutes ago. It happened when I got in bed, turned on Nurse Jackie and realized I was without chips and guacamole. There's something about laying around by your lonesome and stuffing your face that's a truly magical experience. I know it's one that I hold near and dear to my heart. Just go there with me for a moment and breathe in the feeling you have when you are eating the exact food you want, finally catching up on one of your favorite shows and in your comfy-est jammies. It's like the second coming of Jesus or a really good medicinal high. The way the pillow is nestled at the small of your back, the taste of guac and hint of salty residue on your lips from the tostitos. For a brief moment I was in heaven at just the thought of chips with guacamole. My moment of ecstasy quickly turned when I realized that I didn't have any guacamole, not even an avocado to suppress my need for a midnight delight. And then it came. The 'Ah-Ha moment.'

I find love and comfort in midnight pigfests and only need the soft touch of a pillow. This is how people gain 400 pounds and need a forklift to carry their gargantuan asses to the hospital after they've chewed off their hand because they thought it was a funnel cake. My Ah-Ha caused visual hallucinations of big fat asses, cellulite, muffin top, moobs, turkey neck and the dreaded cankle. I poured myself a glass of water and am about to take a sleeping pill feeling slightly empty and uncomfortable but ready to accept the fact that smothering my inner fat girl will forever be a battle.

Eat it, Spam!

Once upon a time my spam box was full of dirty words, mail order brides, sexual enhancement drugs from thailand and porn sites that would eat my hard drive....... But, only if I asked it to.

These days it's all weight loss, plastic surgery, anti-aging cosmetics and offers from online universities to 'Finally decide to plan my life.' I am starting to seriously resent my gmail. I've noticed the beginnings of my youthful downfall but didn't realize it was so apparent that the internet could tell. I mean what the fuck?

I suppose my google searches have matured from hitting up perezhilton and facebook four hundred times a day to the occasional search for GQ, men's health, Barnes & Noble, local news and antique furniture. I used to have a web history that would make your mother blush but no, not anymore. I have spent the most part of this morning navigating theonion.com for an informed and intelligent laugh instead of youtube videos containing the accidental whiffle ball bat the to some moron's junk. Okay, just the thought is still funny. But just because my interests have shifted does not warrant my email service to repeatedly offend me with 50% off compression shirts for men. Compression shirt?!? You know what, Spam box? You were named after a brick of shit in a can.

I've Taken a Lover...

It should come as no surprise to some of you that I have taken a lover. That's right, a lover. it's about time I receive some tender love and attention with no questions or expectations of that whole, 'hold my hand in public so people know you're mine' thing.

In my recent past I have chosen all the wrong men. Some of you also know I go for emotionally unavailable Latinos, and occasionally get down with the swirl. The only white men I have dated have been white trash so, that was always doomed from go. The Latino men, as I mentioned were all emotionally unavailable but always and I do mean always, amazingly sexual with just the right amount of machismo. Their lack of mental stability and ability to keep el chorizo en los pantalones got them in trouble more times than that fat guy on Univision screams, 'SABADO!'

Black men are too much. Always trying to 'make me their boo' and constantly accusing me of a wandering eye. (Which I most certainly do have but not once have acted on.) I dabbled a bit across the pond with a Brit, a few dates with a French fashion designer, quickly ran down 6th avenue and into a gypsy cab after cocktails with a demanding German, and who could forget the blind date with a man named Phuck who I only agreed to go out with because I was told his name was Frank. He was 4 foot three and had the tiniest little hands I have ever seen on a full grown (ish) man. I entertained Phuck for about 16 minutes, or however long it took to down a Kettle martini and ended the meeting with the strangest line to ever escape my lips. "I'm sorry, your height has me feeling uncomfortable and I just don't think I can say anything else. Have to go. Um... okay, Bye." Poor Phuck.

There have been a few British men, for the most part they are respectful and very attentive. Although it's nice to be mentally challenged because let's face it, Europeans are far more intelligent than us TMZ watching Americans, it ended with the few because I just couldn't stand their inability to relax. Everything was analytical, five dimensional and had a reason for existence. Why can't I find a comic strip funny, eat taco bell or enjoy a martini without hearing the history of and reason it was named 'The French Martini?' Guess what, I don't fucking care. I just want a buzz so I can bare another moment with you.

I have essentially dated the United Nations and come to the realization that I will forever commit myself to a life of high stress because I just cant seem to shake the fatal attraction to salsa dancing, bilingual amigos de Ricky. So, this brings me to taking a lover. Yes my friends, a lover. Standing at approximately 1'6", gorgeous Gray hair, and smooth as the day is long. I even have a little nickname for him. Goose. He makes me smile more than any man ever could. So what if I have thrown in the towel for now. I am the only person I know that has truly put himself 'out there' as often as I have with nothing in return. Goose and I will invite you to the ceremony.

Long friggen Island

I mean, I am stuck on Long Island. The birthplace of the tacky woman and really shiny rims. We're famous for things like a poisonous cocktail and Amy Fisher, there's really nothing funny about it. I have had to tone down la vida loca because every time I turn around there's another group of roided out Tony's looking at me like I should be ground up into their protein shakes. The worst part is that they are usually really hot, so I cant even hate them. Just the other day I was poppin my booty and singing along to Beyonce on the radio while I was filling up on gas, some woman on the other side of the pump asked me if I was 'enjoying the negative attention.' Obviously I laughed and said, "You should only worry when people give you positive attention." She looked at me for an awkward 10 seconds of confusion and got into her car. As she pulled away and I continued to run the world with Beyonce, I noticed the two young boys in her back seat with their phones pointing at me. I'm saying with certainty that I am on Youtube for every teenage boy to gawk at as part of their douche training. I'm trying to figure out if it's my flamboyant nature combined with being 6'2 and built like a linebacker, or the very apparent looks I give people when I disapprove of their existence that makes the general public either hate me or act like they have spotted a unicorn. Maybe it's both, who knows. Either way it blows my mind that I am 30 miles east (3 hours by car) from the most eclectic city in the world and it feels like I am living in Pennsyltucky.

*Pennsyltucky credit to Sara.