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Saturday, November 20, 2010

Pronounced "JIN-juh"

The common redhead, or flavus humana rubra, has hair natually varying from a deep burgundy to bright copper. Approximately 1% to 2% of the human population is affected by this rare anomoaly, which appears in people with two copies of a recessive gene which causes a mutation in the MC1R protein. Gingerism is associated with fair skin color, lighter eye colors (gray, blue, green, and hazel), freckels, and senstivity to ultraviolet light. Cultural reactions have varied from ridicule to admiration, with many existing stereotypes regarding redheads.

Commonly known as coppertops, fantapants, gingarians, ginga ninjas, ginge-tinges, carrot tops, rust heads, and copper knobs, these fiery fellows have been walking the earth for about 50,000 years. Throughout history, their presence has left a mark upon society that can be found through literature and art. During the midieval ages, red hair was thought to be the mark of beastly sexual desire and moral degeneration. Montague Summers, in his translation of the Malleus Maleficarum, notes that red hair and green eyes were thought to be the sign of a witch, a werewolf or a vampire.

(A fresco of a red-haired THracian nonble woman in the Otrusha Mound in central Bulgaria, 4th century BC.)

There are two kinds of redheads existing in our world today, the first of which bein
g the ginger, or sapien flavus rubra. This creature is typically shy, self-concious, intelligent, and socially awkward. Gingers have a certain inclination to wear shades of purple or pink that clash magnificently with their frizzy mane of fury. They enjoy spending their time meticulously practicing the piano, knitting socks, and singing to themselves. Clingling to familiar habitats, gingers can be found in various dark places such as their mother's basement or a cassette rental store. Once fully grown and matured (a feat requiring at least 30 years), gingers usually end up owning either:

a) A large, successful company,
b) A steady supply of prostitutes,
c) A creepy shack full of cats.

The common ginger is not to be mistaken wit the Cohors hominis spectantia flavus rouge, or gang-dwelling ginga, which is a whole seperate species of redhead. Gingas have an extreme terperament which matches the flaming color of their foreign hair. They are stubborn, demanding, critical, easy to upset, clever, competitive, violent, loud, sarcastic, and hot-headed. A ginga never forgets, and a ginga never forgives.

Gingas are identified as cap-busting, kitten saving, well rounded people. "Do not mess with gingas; they are thugs who don't show if from their skin or hair, but are likely to carry a Glock
without you ever expecting it. They ain't afraid to kick your [booty]." (Anonymous classmate)

Gingas are oft found relaxing at classy piano clubs, arguing with brunettes, or fighting Gingerism hate crimes with piercing intellect and strenght as a minority group in the American community. They enjoy good music and creativity, and are not afraid to get sassy on anyone--white freckly-kid style.

Redheads may be commonly mistaken for hall passes, road construction signs, basketballs, carrots, pumpkins, and road cones. No matter how hard it seems, you must never confuse redheads with these items.

Here in America, film and television programs often portray school bullies as having red hair; for example, Scot Farkus from A Christmas Story, the O'Doyle family in the movie Billy Madison, or the bully character Caruso in Everybody Hates Chris. However, children with red hair are often themselves targeted by bullies; "Somebody wit hginger hair will stand out from the croud," says anti-bullying expert Louise Burfitt-Dons.

Although they may be different from the rest of the world, gingers are people too. They enjoy
long walks on the beach and evenings with their ginger-haired sweetheart and a glass of wine, just like any other person. Redheads even feel pain--recent studies have shown that gingers need twenty percent more anesthetics to loose their pain reflexes than the average brunette or blonde. So next time you pass a ginger--or ginga--by on the street, stop for a moment to appreciate the rare genetic mutation. They add a little more diversity to our lives. And they're pretty dang funny to watch.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Feeling Self-Concious

After reading my last post, one might be confused as to the state of this blog. Have I completely abandoned it in the past five months? Talk about a complete reversal... The filthy hypocrite!

Maybe it's because school started. Whenever I get into a very... involving... english class, I have to be writing so often that my brain does a complete flop and I can no longer write outside of boring essays arguing controversies that no one has heard of. Gosh, listen to me now. I'm not even coherent, and I've stuttered over five months to be able to build up to this.

Yes. I have written about a dozen or so posts. They are currently residing in the lovely place where saved drafts live on the blogosphere. But everytime I open one of them up to edit/publish it, I feel like a total idiot for writing it in the first place and I feel like it doesn't represent me at all because it's too silly or too depressing. So pretty much, I'm a bipolar freak who has trouble staying in one emotion over time when writing. You know. Ha. I'll probably hate this tomorrow.

That, and I feel completely scrutinized for my work. It's as if there is some hawk-of-an-AP-Lang teacher staring over my shoulder, diving too deep into concepts, being too opinionated, and absolutely shutting my warrants down. Like some mean, destroying machine. Killer of children and small, furry animals.

I can't even THINK for myself anymore! Any deeper, philosophical thought that I might have relates to some discussion that we've had in class, and I suddenly feel self-concious like I have something to say and I want to say it, but I can't unless I am 100% sure it's impressive. I feel like I could argue over anything. I feel like I can't talk about anything. It's like I'm stuck in some monkey-hell limbo. That was a Mighty Boosh reference.

I may have to do a post on that show.

So.... You may or may not be able to imagine how I've forced myself to trudge through the past weeks, ignoring that tantalizing picture of blueberry-cake-whatever-it-was-after-all (which, as a matter of fact, was not too successful at persuading me to post as soon as I should have).

You know what, grammar? You suck. Nobody likes you. You have no friends.

*Smacks forehead*

I don't know how to write _ _ _ _ anymore. I cannot. It's as if somebody threw a rice bag over my head and threw me into a lake.

Haha, that would actually be fun.

No, dangit. It wouldn't!

*Smacks forehead*

It's so strange to think that it was JULY last time I posted on here. Now, it's mid-November, we're preparing for Christmas in dance, and there's snow on the ground. Eff.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

[Untitled]

It's crazy to think that last time I posted on here, it was summer.

I've been having some conflicting feelings, as of late. Mainly, it's all about balance: When to do this, when to do that. If a joke is appropriate. If it's over the top. If it's underrated. This is a completely fine assessment, I know, for a teenager to be going through. It's just... I don't know. Not harder, per se, but more interesting than I thought.

Yesterday, a rather self-absorbed girl leaned over to me during French III. "Oh-mi-gosh," she said. "I just LOVE pop. It's my favorite genre." I honestly had nothing to say to her, having no visible way of either agreeing pitifully or shooting her down truthfully. I just managed to raise my eyebrows at her for a moment and returned to the lecture. But honestly, is this what we've come to? Thinking that A: POP is a genre and B: You are then inclined to just like what everyone else is liking? That's what pop is--what's popular. It's pretty disappointing...

The whole image of reputation and popularity is such a fickle concept. Honestly, it's so immature. Will we ever grow out of it? I still find myself frowning when I see adults who are so self-conscious and oriented around others. I kinda feel badly for them, really. It's not a fun position at all. But it's not a big deal to just walk away from that whole conception and be able to see the greater perspective of, I don't know, being friends with everyone. It must have been hard for them in high school.

I used to be one of them. I was so unhappy, though. I remember it still: there was always so much drama, and even if you were in the popular group, there were many divisions within. Bad feelings, back stabbing, gossipping... all of it was there. I don't hate these people--no not at all. I just know that they are so much better than that.

Can't we all just... be more classy? More sportsmanlike? Those kind of people are so much more attractive; I mean this in the literal meaning of the word.

Whatever, I have the best friends in the world.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Sometimes I feel sarcastic. Deal.

After many weeks of intense pain, misery, and a pinch of gut-twisting agony, I have decided that I no longer feel the need to always have reason to post on my blog.

So, like, scratch that last post.

I mean temporarily. C'mon, you don't expect me to be regular at anything, right?

As a first note of business, I would like to inform you that our intelligent German Shepard Maggie has been sneaking onto my mom's computer for the past few months. Luckily, we learned that she has only managed to create a Facebook account, and give my email address to some really spunky spammers who insist that I'm the "SOPHIE" they're looking for.



Her main page... I'd recommend clicking on these pictures to see them full size.



Her interests and such.

Although we've managed to restrain her from the computer for the time being, (a process involving a harness, choke chain, fence post in the middle of our backyard, and a set of new passwords on any electronic device we own, and one trip to the hospital) Maggie wishes that I inform you all that she is willing to be friends with anyone who sends her an invite.


Second, I'm debating as to what my next created t-shirt made shall be. Here are my options:

1. A llama with a wicked unicorn horn. No words included. It's a fantastic beast anyway.

2. Big bright, tag words that say GINGA FO LIFE

3. A high-contrast Spock holding his hands up doing the Vulcan greeting thing with some sick headphones on. Maybe a tape player.

My third bullet point of the day is... goodbye iPod. We shared some cosmic days together, but now it's time to separate. Apple deserves a cruel Achilles-tendon clipping for the pain that they have caused you and I by not covering water/liquid damage in the warranty. You were the first iPod that I bought myself, and the last. I'm afraid that I am now broke and lack the ability to save money. I have finally been able to admit this to myself.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

My Personal Posting Process (how quaint!)

Probably the main source of persuasion for me for semi-regular blog posting is the fact that I've set my blog as my homepage. It adds this nice, guilt-inducing, pain-in-the-neck type feel to my Internet surfing experience. When I do post, I usually like to embed a picture somewhere within my text so that each day as I click that little 'e' icon, I can see that same picture over and over, until I'm driven to tears and eventually dread and avoid this stupid DELL, being compulsed to perform my maniacal, time wasting activities elsewhere.

So, with my marbles lost and my brain batty, I unconsciously begin to brainstorm. Usually I have small thoughts or portions on my mind that don't have enough fluff to make a long enough post (see my many accounts of "bullet-pointed, conjoined posts") or ideas that when I actually WAKE UP 7 or 8 hours later I realize they are boggles.

What's up with my vocabulary today? Maybe it's because there's no food in this house and I'm surviving off a multitude of blueberry muffin-cake that my mom made two evenings ago for my sister-in-law's arrival from Seattle. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, baby!

I think I'm going to vomit.

Anywho, after several weeks, I stop dreading the Internet--specifically my homepage--and face this fiery dart head on. I finally make a post that will let my panging guilt romp free.

I write about how OH, WOE-BE-GONE me has SO MUCH TO DO, which I certainly don't deny but you've got to be getting as sick of it as I am... It's without a doubt easier to hint or allude to recent quote-unquote DRAMAS (how dramatic.) going on in my WOE-BE-GONE life than actually fessing up. Hey, it's the world wide web. I getta do whatever I want!

Then for some reason, I can never figure it out, but after I write that one post, I feel the need to change or edit it a ba-gillion times for virtually no effect. And THEN I have TONS of ideas that seem to flood in to every pore of my consciousness and harass my very existence. My one point of verdict is the fact that I don't like it when you publish two posts in one day and the date gets taken off of the second one because it's unnecessary.

Finally, once I quench my many yearnings to publish countless posts in a single mad minute, I see that pretty much, I don't know, NO ONE feels the need to comment on one until 2 weeks later out of pity. This is particularly despicable because people find it acceptable to TELL ME they read my blog in PERSON but "don't know how to comment" my EYE--and yes, Maria, I'm pointing at you. Look, if I WANTED to talk to you in person I WOULD but OBVIOUSLY I'm posting on my BLOG instead. Suck on that.

As you may have already found, I started this blog when I was a measily, knee-knobbing seventh grader. I apparently felt the need to use as many exclamation points as possible--a need that I believe has transferred into the insane amount of commas I post with--along with being extraordinarily schizophrenic. I can see why nobody read this baby. Wow. Pretty much, I just posted a picture on and screamed about it or demanded that people vote on some who knows what poll. How miserable. Gosh, I was an obbessive child.

Then, I believe (I don't actually have the stomach right now to go back and clarify this) I turned into some emotional, sarcastic, meat-loving, not as crazy poster--as in one that posts. Thank goodness you can see that I've matured and actually SEEN MORE OF THE WORLD. Let me say that TWILIGHT IS A DISGRACE TO THIS BLOG and I CANNOT BELIEVE I SAID THAT I LOVED ALL POP SONGS TO THE EXTENT OF KNOWING EVERY WORD. I was more shallow than I can ever believe, even in eighth grade which was my best year. I really am going to puke.

Anyway, I hope now I've seen the light. Maybe one day I'll look back on this and feel the need to defenestrate my past, but c'est la vie for now. There's nothing more I can do here.




DANG IT ALL. I just thought of the best post.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Let me introduce myself.

Because we all know that the first time wasn't up to par.



Pretty much throughout my life, I’ve been known as Caroline’s sister; usually it’s because we’re only a year apart in school. See, we’re 22 months and one day apart by birth but are side by side grade-wise, she being very old for her grade, and I young. As a result of this happy coincidence she is usually the one who blazes the trail for both of our educational experiences.


I’d gladly accept a chance to introduce myself before the literal school year begins so we can just skip those painful pauses in class where the teacher will either (A) Call me Caroline by mistake and force me to correct them in front of everyone or (B) Silently stare at me for a time while trying to decipher exactly who I am. Occasionally, I get the rare (C) where teachers who shall remain anonymous will actually start a conversation with me whilst under the impression that I am, indeed, my sister (“Wait… no, yeah you’re the other one, right?”). It’s not like I hold a grudge against them or anything because they have a couple hundred names to memorize each year, but after 12 years of this cycle you can’t blame me for feeling a little worn and withered.


Me, Hannah Hollberg, who am I? I, to put it simply, am a high school student. We are hormonal… dramatic… and we do completely unnecessary things that are apparently “life essential”. We overreact, we whine, we protest. “Nobody understands us,” but that’s not true at all. The only misunderstanding going on is of ourselves. I’m not going to admit that I have everything figured out right now, or claim that I can see my future clearly now. No, the rain must be gone first—whether that be hormones, immaturity, or blatant stupidity. Probably the latter.


Now I hope you can better understand the tumbling mental turmoil that shakes my delicate teenage emotional balance: I want to be someone,—no, I want to be myself, but I have no idea who the crow that is right now. To an extent, at least.


At this current juncture, I am a passionate dancer, addicted to music, an amateur blogger, a compulsive reader, a competitive soul who is intrigued by physics, I’m a straightforward, sarcastic, yet hopeful spirit. I might be childlike and immature, but I am an active lover of arguments, a conservative who listens of NPR. My step-father describes me as precocious, but my mom dislikes the word because it sounds “snotty.” She prefers “bright.”


When I say that I’m a lover or arguments… well, that’s truer than most people will assume. I definitely do not let others shape my beliefs, but I develop them on my own from applicable and respectable resources. Call it pigheaded, and I’ll call it sophisticated. I believe an education, in virtually all matters, is essential to the survival of a nation because once you have a dull and gullible people, a dictator can use whatever means he or she wants to use to manipulate and destroy them. Yep, I’m a fiery red head.


I spend most of my time outside of school dancing: ballet and modern dance are my preferré because they are the yin and yang balance of my life. Modern is the raw, dynamic expression of the emotion inside me while ballet requires self discipline and rigid adherence to form; it’s the constant in my life that everyone needs in some form or another when things get difficult. Both are necessary and they help me look upon the small dramas of life with a more open and composed perspective.


I also enjoy spending some of my extra-curricular in theatre. Oh, I suck big time at it, trust me. But it’s so incredible! Take 5 is one of my favorite events of the year (cheese ahead) because you learn so much from each other and get so close to so many people. Sure, there are numerous times where you cringe and wonder who in the world decided that high school students could accommodate an acting program, but any of these thoughts are eradicated by the sheer joy of performing work (if not well, then communally) to an audience. It reminds me of dance, my ultimate passion, in this way.


To sum it all up, I am a lover of life. I love people, art, creation, activity in mental, physical, and spiritual matters. I appreciate the sciences and realities in existence, and when someone accomplishes the seemingly impossible. I may not have found out exactly who I am yet but in all honestly, I can’t help falling in love with life.

Me, Hannah Hollberg, who am I? I, to put it simply, am a high school student.


You may never know what results come of your action,
but if you do nothing there will be no result.
-Mahatma Ghandi