" - a ginger day"

Perhaps you can't read the bottom:

"Every day more and more ginger babies are born, causing distress to literally thousands of Mother's and Father's up and down the country. With your help we can put an end to the suffering that these children inflict upon Parents, friends, and even passers by. Dr. Karl Pullmeov is heading pionerring [sic] research into the elimination of the ginger gene. Give generously and help the world become a less ginger place."

These are the founders of kick a ginger day. Alas, I see their point: I cause my parents so much distress that my mother frequently asks me to reproduce. She wants a ginger grandkid. My habits of being mute in public surely terrifies passers by. (A person silently walking? With ginger hair? Dear God, what is she planning? Keep her from the children!) And I really shouldn't start with my friends. Although, can I really call them friends if my presence is secretly causing them agony?

Seriously? People make me sick.

Kick a ginger day was treacherous--the news began documenting it and students got in horrific trouble with administrators. It needed to be erased. Others sought to make amends. But hug a ginger day? Is this some sick attempt to prove gingers have souls? (Because if it is, I won't stand for it.)

It's not that I have anything against kind gingers--I've actually met some. On some occasions I might be considered one. But I do not like being hugged. It is an unwelcome invasion. And I do not like people telling me I have a soul when they do not even know me.

Perhaps it is rarer to be a ginger than to be a brunette. Perhaps a ginger is more easily spotted in a crowd. But a ginger is no more or less a person than a brunette. And as a ginger I do not like be singled out. I do not like strangers stopping me for any reason--particularly those linked to my hair.

So let me clear some things up for you.
I am fond of the color green, but I am not a leprechaun. I am more than five feet tall and I am not, in any way, Irish.
I may or I may not have a soul. That is for me to decide.
I am also left handed, but only I can call myself Beelzebub.
I am not a character from some guy's redhead fetish.
I am not, to my knowledge, a witch.
I am probably paler than you, and I avoid the sun like it is my death warden, but I am not a vampire.

Whatever it is that comes to mind when you think "ginger," do not speak it to me. And do not, come June 22, think you have any right to hug me.