Let me tell ya, It ain’t easy being red, particularly given my make and model. In case you don’t know, redheads come in two varieties: don’t eff with me jackass Power Reds and Hi, I’m a doormat can I get you some coffee? Shy and Retiring Auburns. don’t eff with me jackass Power Reds like myself are full-on, stereotypical reds, capable of supplying the energy needs of the nation for a full 24 hours if only science could figure out a way to harness our power are a force to behold. Doormats and Tea Retiring Auburns however, possess the same and equal power by the very nature of their redness, however they possess an aberrant gene that makes them weak and undeserving of their redness have never quite wrapped their brain around it and hence do their best to blend into the wallpaper.

As a Power Red, I admit I take full advantage of the innate fear people possess of my very real supposed temper, but it just isn’t as much fun as it used to be is disheartening to watch people cringe when they’ve realized they have fucked up royally in my presence have upset me, and they wait to see whether or not I will flay the skin from their body in the most painful way imaginable get angry at them. And while back in the day, I made it a raison detre to prove that blonds most certainly do not have more fun Reds are not to be forgotten in the Blond/Brunette power struggle, now that I’ve been off the market for many moons married, yummy-flirty puppy boys gentlemen who assume they can immediately talk dirty to me chat me up, have become more of a bore and chore tiresome like cleaning up after the dog in the backyard. Been there, done that. Nothing original to see here people, move along.

The thing that really pisses me off upsets me ever so slightly about becoming an Elder Red is that my hissy-fits, temper tantrums, and rants occasional outbursts at fucking morons perceived injustices are viewed as less cute as I grow into a haggard old crone age. For example, this weekend I was in Dante’s seventh circle of Hell the airport and some redneck bozo who thought he was flirting with me but in actuality was annoying the crap out of me and he somehow got the brilliant idea to insult me instead well-meaning but clumsy fellow started flirting with me. When I didn’t fall for his line of shit because damn, he smelled bad and was totally in my personal space failed to take notice of his attention, he thought he’d be an Einstein and provoke me into putting a pencil through his eye it would be amusing to tease me about my hair color.

Now I’ve heard all the jokes and am rarely fairly good natured about these insulting pricks harmless ribbings. Like when this insipid idiot complete stranger insists on pissing me off asking me whether or not my hair color is “real” as in does my collar match my cuffs?, I know I should rip his head off and spit down his neck politely answer the question, however, I’m freakin red-head you dingbat! Of-effen-course I’m going to counter with the question of whether or not that offensive smelling, mangy rug on your bean that you obviously purchased on QVC is your “real hair”!

Would you expect any less? Jeeesh…

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