2012-11-16 @ 9:23 p.m.
This doesn't suck at all
The first time I got my nose pierced I was 13. I�d just met my real father for the first time � that sounds funny to say. I�d just met my real father. But it�s true. The man I called Dad was no more my blood relation than Elmo. This man made up half my DNA � he was there in my eyes, in the shape of my face, in my unruly curls and my capricious temperament - and had so far been just a whisper on the tips of my family�s tongues. Someone we didn�t acknowledge. Someone they thought I was better off not knowing.
My dad knew the idea of piercings and tattoos held a special fascination for me. I guess it was an early indication of my creative instincts. Accessorize? Yes � with ink and metal. I still feel the same way, only my accessories, my ink and my metal, are so much a part of me that they�re no longer accessories at all. They�re my skin and my bones. My cartilage and my flesh.
Offering me a piercing, any piercing of my choice, was clever. What rebellious 13 year old with a highly conservative mother would turn that down? So I chose my nose. And I chose to let my dad in on a little slither of my heart. I shuffled the pieces about and found a little strip for him to take up residence. And I cherished that piercing until I was 20. Then, when I realised that some people are incapable of loving without destroying, I took the gem out of my nose and laid it to rest. And I gave up on ever having a real father.
Getting my nose pierced again was about me. It wasn�t about him this time. It�s about acknowledging that I loved that piercing, no matter what it symbolised, and I accept my past is set in stone, but my future isn�t. My ink and my metal are the parts of me that I get to choose. The DNA of two people who probably should never have had a child together has determined what I look like to the world � I determine the rest.
A shit load of contradictions, wrapped up neatly, with a nice pretty bow.
Reading. Writing. Zoos & Animal Parks. Bowling. Coffee Ice-cream. Blues Rock/Alternative/Indie Music. Fallen Angels. Wild Flowers. Pastrami. Vanilla Coke. Autumn. Harry Potter. Driving. Turquoise. Southern Comfort. Aviators. Semolina. Christmas. Museums. Dream Catchers. Roller Coasters. Tattoos. Winter Cider. Philosophy. Vintage Shops. Night time. Chinese Lanterns. Hoop earrings. Sci-Fi. Flowery Skirts. Mythical Creatures. Weeping Willows. Castles. Yankee Candles. Rainy Mornings. Ballet Pumps. Baking. Art Galleries. Long pendants. Quills and Ink. Spiced Rum. Libraries. Sleeping. Converse. Forests. Banana Milk. Venetian Masks. Poetry. Fireworks. US License Plates. Graveyards. Quotes. White Chocolate. Cats. Stars. Scrap Books. Shopping. Metallic Nail Varnish. Keepsakes. Phoenixes. Golden Grahams. Horror Movies. Tea (Esp. Rose Earl Grey). Lemonade Shower Gel. Travelling. Tragic Love. Piercings. Old Book & New Sponge Smells. Storms. Witty People. Cherries. Colourful Socks. American Dramas. Airports. Aston Martins. Hazelnut Lattes. Cowboys. Skeleton Keys. Cajun Chicken. Ivy. Dreams. Cinnamon Waffles. Old London. French Cheese. Trilby Hats. Antiques. Colourful Plasters. Postcards. Colourful paperclips. Bangles. Marvel & DC Comics. Key rings. Notebooks.
Dishonesty. Racism. Narrow-Mindedness. Idiocy. Unwarranted Violence. Neglective Parents. Bullying. Unearned Respect. Betrayal. Extreme Heat. Bright Lights. Sickness. Mushrooms & Olives. Alarm Clocks. Unfounded Jealousy. South African Accents. Celebrity Biographies. Suffocating Presences. Restrictions. Superficial people. Game playing. Routines.
Robert Frost Leather Bound Journal.
Small Vinyl Book Ends.
Astro Star Lamp.
designer
joy.deprived