One day it will be illegal to discriminate against people with body modifications and I just hope that I am neither a wrinkly old bag nor six feet under when it is.
Whilst shooting metal and ink through the skin may not be everyone’s idea of a fun time; to me, rejecting the job application of a person purely because of their chosen body modifications is as despicable as if it were for the colour of their skin. (Which, in the case of tattoos, is exactly that!)
The main reason this discrimination is so prolific is due to their arguably ‘negative’ associations, and yet, do my eight piercings somehow cancel out my eight A* GCSE qualifications? Does having a stud through my nose mean that I am incapable of serving customers or washing dishes?
This is such an important issue to me because I adore tattoos; they are pieces of art and one of the most beautiful forms of expression. But I know that if I got a tattoo I would be drastically reducing my employability which, as a promising Literature student, isn’t exactly sky-rocketing to begin with!
We should not be continuing to humour those who find body modifications offensive because they are harmless and we are only, in turn, oppressing our freedom.
As a self-confessed, hopeless romantic, perhaps I have only myself to blame for my seemingly cyclic heartache. Most often this comes in the form of needing to ‘get over’ someone- an inevitable occurrence for every being on the Earth.
But what pains me the most is realising that all their insignificant traits I fell in love with; whether that was the way they pronounced particular vowels or the way their hair-flicked (for I cannot deny my shameful shallowness when it comes to hair!) those things do not exist in anyone else.
I will never meet anyone else exactly like them.
Which taunts me tremendously…
… for the reason that I like them.
I am not me.
As nobody is them.
I am every minute you kept me waiting by my window for your arrival. I am those moments of anticipation that add up to hours. But I am also the disappointment when there was nothing left to hold on to and no longer anything to wait for.
I am my teacher’s faith. I am the time he told me I was going to get the highest grade in my moments of despair. The confidence, the doubt and the marks were not -in fact- mine.
I am every telling off that has cursed my ears and crowded my mind. I am every ‘No Smoking’ sign and every slander of ‘slut’ which, in turn, keeps the world from touching my lips.
I am all the novels, all the films and quotations that fill my shelves but none of it is truly mine.
I am a jumbled compilation of everything that I have witnessed and believed so if I call myself ‘myself‘-
I’d be lying.