First, let me start by saying that I’m no saltier than you would be if you had to go through what I’ve dealt with. That’s not a defect, it’s a default. Sometimes you have to choose whether to exhaust yourself trying to rise above your circumstances, or to just roll with it and let your environment mold into what it will. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be a bleeding-heart idealist. Now I like to call myself a closet idealist. Don’t start; you’re not better than me, you just haven’t really had struggles, not like me.
There are many thing to blame my condition on. Now, I don’t want to throw my parents under the bus if I don’t have to, so I won’t drag them into this just now. The real saboteurs to my sanity: gingers.
It’s a love-hate relationship. On one hand they fill an important gap in the Caucasian sphere, preventing an annoying and potentially catastrophic excess of blondes and brunettes. On the other hand they inundate the world with their salt and suntan lotion, destroying lives and aloe fields alike. Shut it; I’m allowed to hate- I’m Irish. Don’t get me wrong, I’d kill for my family. But I accept that our genes contribute to the epidemic.
I’ve been married seven times, all redheads. The one thing I’ve taken away is this: gingers are like socks with holes. There’s a homey sentimental quality to them that can’t be filled by new socks. Other times, they’re so annoying you just want to grab them by their flaws and rip them apart. But would you be happier barefoot? No.
So you let them leave you with little blisters where their holes are until you can’t take the pain anymore. Then you tear them up and throw them away, buy a new pair, and move on. And it’s their fault for having holes. I told you before, I’m a closet idealist.