"Candy is a whore's name," she said disgustedly.

"Candy is a whore's name," she said disgustedly. "Or maybe a stripper. Has a Candy ever won a Nobel prize or

been elected to the Supreme Court? That's almost as bad as being named after the governor of Alaska." He knew she was

in for a treat. So I told her to ditch the supreme court aspirations and come over to my

place for a nice rum with eggnog. She told me 'It ain't Christmas, honey,' in that wry tone. I smirked; 'you can still ring my bells, baby.' She laughed kindheartedly as

she peeled bills from a roll large enough to choke a hippo. Throwing several at my feet, she said, 'You may be redder than the devils dick, but I like you.'

But with those words, I became immune to her charms. How dare she call me red? Ever since the kids at the back of the bus made fun of me for my rosacea, my knee jerk reaction is

to vomit at the sight of my own red hair and rash-red face. I took to dying my hair brown and wearing make-up around the house to conceal my deformity. If only I could

disappear entirely, but that might just appease the wrong people and somehow taint even my absence. I resolved to dress without color-to fade away and let my brilliance be a beacon

over the heads of this generation who have no idea about the Greatest American Hero. Instead, the Chipettes are singing shrilly to Beyonce and it's my worst nightmare come true.