Gingers≠Blondes

Let me clarify this once and for all:

Gingers are NOT Blondes.

I'm bringing this up because my ginger roommate insists that he's blond. He came into the room today, as I lay hungover/somewhat still drunk in my bed, and starts talking about what bad sunburn he got from sailing. Granted it was bad. He's head was burnt in an downwards triangle that pointed towards his chin, and his ghost pale legs had odd red stripes on them. I don't know how he got such odd marks, but I digress.

I'd feel sorry for the guy if he didn't follow up the tale with "I guess you know what I mean, us guys with blonde hair and blue eyes always get burned"

. . .

Did he just imply that I look like him? A ginger?

Not acceptable.

My annoyance would have been forgotten if he didn't wander into my study corner later, sit down and say "can I ask you a question?"

I thought"This is wierd"

"Wow this is awkward to ask."

"Where is he going with this? Granted he's usually awkward, he just doesn't admit it"

"I might be interning in New York this summer, and I was thinking maybe if you're ok with it, since I'm not 21 yet . .

I catch on, and am eased that its not some more awkward question. I started thinking, hmm, maybe giving him my license would be good for him, it might get him out more. I need to get a new one anyway, mine still has "UNDER 21" written on it several times. But then he had to ruin it.

" You know, since we look so similar: blonde hair, blue eyes"

"WHAT?!?"

I bit my tongue. Hard. Not only did he again claim that we both had blonde hair, he implied that I looked like him, a ginger!! We do NOT resemble each other in the least. But there he was, for the second time that day, calling me, in essence, a ginger look-a-like.

And for the record I do not have blue eyes, they're pale green (though they were a really cool yellow, yes, yellow color in high school, but then they changed back. . .)

Now not all red-heads are gingers. To be a ginger you must posses the glowing red hair, pale clammy skin, overabundance of freckles, and generally creepiness that reflects the fact that you don't have a soul.

My school's debating society has debated on several occasions whether or not gingers should have the same civil rights as normal people.

The resolution was defeated.

There is no way I'm giving him my license now. Especially when he asks like that. He would just let it go to waste anyway. Its not like he even goes to parties now. He often puts homework ahead of going out on the weekend, I can't imagine how awkward he would be in a New York club.

Actually I can

I also don't want the kid wondering around the Big Apple with my identity. And signature.

He looses stuff constantly.

So a hint to all gingers. If you are asking a really big favor from a non-ginger. Do not compare yourselves to the person in question.

You can't complement someone by saying they don't have a soul.

Post Script: The word "blonde" for those of you not brushed up on you're blonde vocabulary, is one of the few words in the english language that still has a gender. e.g. He is blond and January Jones is also blonde.

Ahh, January Jones . . .

Bourbon= Knowledge

I go to a University in the South. Ergo, I drink a lot of Bourbon. I never had Bourbon before I came to college, but since I joined our University's debating team, Bourbon has become my life blood.

We had our first meeting of the semester the other day, and because I had been sober all break (obviously my New Years sucked this year) I went a little overboard. Ever have half a solo cup of straight hard booze after several hours of drinking? Needless to say, I married Ms. Toilet that night.

It was a private ceremony.

As the next week unfolded, I slowly learned what happened that night. First of all, I didn't remember that I blacked out. In other words I didn't remember, that I didn't remember, or as I like to call it "College Amnesia." Then I found out that I called one of my old friends who goes to another university and with whom I had a fight with and haven't talked to since. I'm sure the voicemail message was painful and I'll never hear from her again. I'm sure I'll write about that soon, prepare yourselves. On a slightly less embarrassing note, however, I learned that Bourbon (which always deserves capitalization) gives me special abilities.

When I'm drunk I can speak LATIN.

Yes, Latin. I'm well known for speaking French when I get drunk. No big deal. I've been taking French for 3 years. What good is studying a language if you cant 't leave long grammatically incorrect voicemails on your friends' phones. But Latin? I took Latin in high school, which means I remember squat. Sure, I can recollect some basic phrases, and can translate a few simple (and short) lines if I have help, but thats it. Thats why I was dumbfounded when my Anarchist Associate, as I shall call him (yes, I know he lives in dream land) told me that I was not only speaking Latin, but speaking it INTELLIGIBLY.

I cannot do this sober.

This has lead me to the conclusion that Bourbon is magical. I don't know what it is about Bourbon that makes me find lost brain cells from my pathetic attempt to learn Latin in high school. But it did.

Bourbon is magic shit.

It has just the right amount of pretentious "I go to a prestigious University" mixed with just enough "Let's get smashed!" to be the perfect drink for a debate "Society."

I just realized by the way, that my attempt at alliteration —"Anarchist Associate"— is abbreviated "A.A." Let's step back a moment and enjoy the irony that I nicknamed the person who told me the silly shit I did when I was drunk, "A.A."Do you think my subconscious is trying to tell me something?

I'm drinking Bourbon again tomorrow night. Maybe it will enlighten me.

UPDATE: This week during interviews, I've had at least two people ask me to be on certain panels because "you speak Latin, right?'