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I got fired...

...from my piercing apprenticeship. I’m crushed but life still goes on!

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Reblog to destroy all evil energies in your life

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Decorate your body in whatever way you desire. It belongs to you and you alone.

hi, its me... the face behind this blog (and my friend, ignore his face lol)

My piercing apprenticeship, pt 1.

The story begins with me, not the brightest student, struggling through A levels after just barely surviving GCSE’s. It was the time when everyone was either partying hard or studying to get into university and I was doing neither. I felt as though I was at a stand still... till my lovely dearest friend just told me to go for everything and anything and see where life would carry me. So I did exactly that, all the things that I was passionate about I threw myself into, I started writing more and posted my work online, I applied for tv and radio internships and I also applied for piercing apprenticeships to every studio within a 10 mile radius of my town.

And I got turned down for every single one of them.

Fast forward about 2 years, I was still as unaccomplished and in a job I hated but more secure in myself I guess. Then came the one uneventful day, I got an email, from probably the most notable piercing shop in my town, saying they’d been going through their emails and my cover letter and CV impressed them.

I was a little gobsmacked to be honest, like I said this was probably the most popular piercing shop in my town and I know for a fact they must have had thousands of people asking for apprenticeships. But never the less, I responded immediately (after calling my friend to squeal down the phone),and from then the correspondence led to an interview. When this interview came around I had come to learn that the business was being taken over by new owners who were expanding the business. That’s fine, the shop was reputable and really loved in the community but there were some faults, the wait time, only being able to pay in cash, the opening hours etc. So this new management is exciting me to be honest.

So for my interview, I’d prepared myself to the fullest, printed off a copy of my CV AND emailed one, printed my passport, bank details and printed my study materials for blood born pathogens and first aid and COSHH safety standards and I just about robbed my current job of printer paper and ink doing so!

I was prepared but I also like to mentally prepare myself for failure (because let’s face it even in this niche market, job prospects for my generation aren't the best) but it turned out be the best interview I’ve ever had. (BTW; if anyone wants a post on what the interview and questions were like, let me know and I’ll make a separate post, because I’m someone who likes to prepare thoroughly and I know I couldn't find much when searching for what kind of questions they’d ask me.)

And VOILA, a few days later, I get a cal saying I GOT THE JOB. I start 2nd of November 2017.

#piercing #piercing apprentice #Piercing Apprenticeship #piercer #body piercing #body piercer #body mod #body modification #septum #vertical labret

Piercing Apprenticeship.

This is the end of the beginning.

I’ve long sought after an in to the field of body modification, and since my art skills are less than reputable it was safe to say I wasn’t going to become a tattoo artist. To be completely honest, piercings have always appealed to me more anyway but my love of body modification as a whole started with my grandmothers in Africa and their distinctive and ceremonious scarification. When I was around 15 in England, listening to Refused and Cancer Bats, I was introduced to a community that did so much more than simple ear piercings or small tattoos. I would line up at concerts where people were covered head to toe with beautiful intricate tattoos. Where girls my age had more metal in their face then there was metal in bank vault door.

Although from the outside I may look like a plain girl, I have a deep rooted love for all things Body Mod, from as shy as an ear piercing to as garish and dangerous as suspension.

Keep your eyes peeled for my Part 1. How, when, and where I got my piercing apprenticeship.

#piercing #piercing apprentice #piercing apprenticeship #body modification #body mod

the emotion sinks in at 10:02, the bus ride back home,

there's a green hue that placates the new disruption inside you.

though streets outside are barely visible. you strain to see them, so that mundane life seems in reach.

the emotion’s second wave crashes your changing shore and sinks in when you take your shoes off at the door. when the slow pace and easy habits halt, seem arbitrary.

the emotion becomes overwhelming when rationality says you can't reach out for one more hug. the affirmation that love still courses through you both, because you're not sure if it will when you're oceans apart. the last goodbye is uttered.

you feel something. the emotion is what keeps you alive, what makes your heart beat.

Street Smart over book smart?

I beseech you, for the love of all that is holy! Lift those ghostly pale fingers from the keyboard on which you were about to write a scathing insult to a stranger living halfway across the world and use them in a different way. To pick up ‘Harry Potter’, ‘The Book Thief’ or ‘The Weight of Water’ just to get you started. Reading by no means is an escape nor does it require sacrilegious tournament to be subjected.

O Day of days when we can read! The reader and the book, either without the other is nought. (Ralph Waldo Emerson

We’re called "the Global Generation." born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it's because we're the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it's because social media allows us to post every time we “hit up” a starbucks or have a sandwich for all the world to see. Our generation is known by many other names; “the spell check generation”, “the ungrateful generation” and “the internet generation”. One thing I can say is more than just a delusion is that the general consensus among us think that ‘reading is uncool’. You’ll be labeled such childish names as ‘dork’, ‘nerd’ or my personal favorite ‘boffin’, all because you’re seen holding ‘Atlas Shrugged’, ‘Wuthering Heights’ or even ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ for Pete’s sake!

I can’t pinpoint the exact date when you’d become a social outcast for exclaiming ‘may the odds be ever in your favour’ because it happened faster than the big bang or pre-teen phases, although I can tell you that it thoroughly irked me.

Reading a great book puts you in this sort of cocoon- an igloo if you will, where only the world between the lines exists and nothing can break or penetrate this sanctuary. Which is great! Lord know’s why I love to read so much but I figured something out the other day, I shall share it with you (but forgive me for sounding like a weirdo); when I read, immerse myself in a great piece of literature, I get so engrossed in the story and after awhile it’s like I’m just staring at the page and the plot is unfolding before my very eyes. It whisks me away to some dystopian land where order is no more, or the hungry bowls of a beast floating in outer space. Something other than my dull, monotone surroundings. Of course I’ve read a new book today and it’s changed my whole perspective on life. Again. Most of my favorite books have away in connecting you to everything and everyone: everything you haven’t experienced yet and everyone you’ve never even thought about. Reading a book is an experience, one where you may laugh, cry and sympathise with a protagonist that is glowing beacon of heroism or strength.

Believe me, I’m not saying go out and buy ‘the importance of being Ernest’ or ‘The Alchemist’ but I’m also not saying to go and buy ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea or ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. Here’s a thought, all those recent blockbusters that you’re hearing about, indeed, they were books first. ‘The Hunger Games’, ‘Twilight’, ‘The Mortal Instruments’ -all books before they became movie adaptations, why not give them a go? They are targeted towards this misguided generation anyway. I realise now though that the books I read are not books for someone my age. Neither are the books on ‘my to read’ list.

I am a frequent visitor to many bookshops and the looks that have been cast my way when I’m found browsing anything other than the teen fiction or dark romance section was at first hilarious but now just plain insulting. Don’t get me wrong I’ve sifted through my fair share, probably more so, of blood curdling supernatural teen romance novels. I have found acceptable ones like Alyson Noel’s Immortals series and I have found ones that shall remain unnamed.

Y.O.U Prologue

story plot line –

Sam watched from afar and never once dared to approach. He watched as the blond haired girl went about her daily routine. Watched her leaving the dreadfully numbing psychology class that they both had to endure, and breezing happily along to meet her friends. Breeze, that’s what she did. Ramona was far too much of a gentle creature to do something as brute as run, jog or even skip. No, in fact while Sam watched her reach the circle of friends, he thought how uncharacteristic it would be for Ramona to run and if she did just that, Sam greatly feared that the tender girls bones would shatter in her legs. For anyone who spared the girl a second glance would see the flutter of her lashes against pale high cheek bones to remind one of a child, or the absent minded patter of her fingers against her peach ice tea to be placating. Or maybe it was just is to Sam.

It’s quite interesting when you like someone, you start to notice that everything about them seems more attractive when it seems normal to everyone else. Their smile seems so much brighter. The sound of their voice is more soothing. Their goofy laugh sounds much cuter. Every little thing about them just reels you in at an unabashed speed. It’s like their imperfections don’t seem bad at all. It’s funny how our view of someone depends on how we feel about them. In fact, in life, it’s well-known that, you get what you give. Though Sam isn’t quite sure how much a broken person can give. He still sees a girl with pale high cheek bones, disarmingly blond hair and fluttering eyelids except he sees what others seem to be blithely oblivious to. The girl still has an angular face to shame any model and hair that Sam thinks should be the world’s energy source as it, indeed, shines brighter than the sun itself. But her hair seems a little less shiny today and her high cheek bones only make her eyes look sunken in further above the barely visible dark circles she’d attempted to cover with makeup . And her eyelashes, their flutter looked like it would shatter her into a million pieces as she tries to give all she can to a person that takes but refuses to give.

This thought was carried away by the late May wind that blew past Sam, making him tuck his hands into his pockets and turn away, attempting to avoid looking like a pervert staring at one amazing girl in one un-amazingly insignificant town that he’d never even uttered a fleeting ‘hey’ to.

Why do I write so infrequently?

Tonight, or this morning. Somewhere in the wealth’s lazy afternoon i’ll tell you the story of my death. How it was my fault and how I murdered myself.

I was an unbalanced child, somewhere between virtuous and disenchanted. Nowhere near heretical and never idolising those who were.

For 25 years I inhabited this space on earth like some incongruous sprout in the desert. Then when the time came for me so set aside self deprecating thoughts and leave behind nights of sheltered solitude…

Well, they grew too familiar. Too comfortable.

The jealous and flourishing activities of my comrades didn't seem agreeable.

And that's when I let the thought take me, let the much appalled darkness enter the crevices in my armour and meander their way to my core.

That's when you became my solace and my night. My knight and my disaster.

And I know it's ridiculous that I won't say it out loud but I expect you to know what I need.

My brain has rationalised how utterly preposterous it is and I'm not saying I need you to take care of me- just show me you care. I need this from you because others won’t even acknowledge my pain. They see a movie set, they imagine the big screen. The dagger enters me and I fall to the ground, life already seeping out in the every breath, I'm becoming a spectre, when they call for take 2.

I can’t escape

the fireflies tap at the glass

they never stop, watch me take shape

I’m curled up in a ball, I’m third class

building myself up

and breaking myself down

I’m up all night, nothing but a blight

I sleep all day, remember oneself

the pieces lay where they may,

and I break the glass as I tell myself

“there’s no other way”

Nothing makes my skin prickle more than a gust of cold wind

Not the rush of emotion when I saw her for the first time

Or the last

That's what you call a hollow shell

space carved out, memories stolen and devoid of feelings

Much unlike the girl I once was

Social Interaction Pt1.

Social interaction is important for human beings, it has been since the dawn of time. Even the third sub-section in Maslow's theory of hierarchy is social needs, having loving friends and family. There are exceptions to the norm however, as we know, socially anxious or inept people would rather be recluse than be known as the life of the party by a long shot. Is this a condition though? Can we count it as a mental condition? Anxiety in certain situations such as phobias or traumatic memories is treated with drugs, beta blockers and benzodiazepines and the like but what about anxiety in the circumstance of a room full of sweaty teenagers pushing up against each other in an attempt to procreate with clothes on. Is this an issue that needs to be treated with drugs? Does the fact that certain humans view social interaction in a negative light make it a fundamentally and biologically unnatural thing?

I can't escape my own thoughts, sometimes I think about the future and I get myself stressed to the point where I'm ready to give up on life, most of the time though I can't escape the sick

memories of my past and that's when it really gets bad and I don't know if I'm ever going to cope. How do people cope? I just wish that I could lose consciousness for just awhile before the ragging sobs rack my body and make my shoulders tremble. How do people cope. I ... Don't, no I don't want to take the coward's way out. Though it could be quicker than having to deal with the the images in my head, the thoughts about what happened. Blaming myself blaming everyone. Hating it. And the sad thing is, they’re telling me to remember the good times through the bad, remember in times of hardship that light, happiness and a better time does exist. Do they really expect me not to think about the dark times when I’m in the light though? When it’s smiles all round and carefree cries am I not supposed to dread the time that I’ll be plunged into black again? Especially when the bad times are so much worse than the good times are good.

Poem Spam

All I care about is the horrors of this world

because how can a person truly be happy if there is fear

life can not be trouble free, fulfilling, all that you want it to be

because there are still evil people, there are still bad things

and they happen every day.

I am told I am equal, I have the same rights as you

but my boss doesn’t have to tell me the reason I get paid less is because of my gender

he’ll just say I lack motivation, I’m sometimes late, I make the money but i’m no Tate

My friends don’t have to tell me that they think I’m too fragile,

“cliff diving’s no place for a lady,” no, they’ll just say “you’re not agile”

My own dad won’t tell me that I’ve made a good point, no he won’t even listen to because I lack a dick, an appendage, he won’t let me pick

Instead he’ll ask my brother’s opinion on the latest oil slick

A subject that I can’t understand because apparently I’m too thick

All I care about is the horrors of this world

There is darkness then there is light.

So I should prosper the light and remember it is always around the corner, right?

Well what about when I know the dark times are coming?

You can’t tell me to enjoy and not fear.

You don’t tell a child not to fear strangers on the street

yet you tell them not to fear the dark

their concept, in their minds, is what scares them

How are they meant to conceptualise things they don’t understand?

My skin, stuck to my body; the reason I can’t walk down the street without at least one person clutching their bag to their body.

Tell me why it matters so? Why I can’t comment on politics because I’m not from here! I’m low, low class, low value, just low. Oh that’s right I have no worth, but it’s good that I can’t be sold anymore... but I can still be bought, with jokes about my hair and what my mother wears? With fried chicken and chicken chow mein? With whispers of “You’re the first black I’ve been with” My lord are you INSANE!

All I care about is the horrors of this world

The people that hold a gun

The people that hurt you for fun

The people who trick you, then cut off your head,

then laugh as you bathe in the deep dark tulip red.

All I care about is the horrors of this world, and you should too.

don’t ask yourself “what did I do”

to everyone something is a taboo,

that they can judge and how they hold a grudge

but for some more than others

they really ought not to

so before you ask yourself “what did I do”

treat them as you’d have them treat you.

the beginning, the middle and the end. Pt.1

My life does not flow in chronological order as others do. Sure, I was brought into this world and lived the first few years of my life similar to how anyone else would, care free and wholly dependant on another. Until fate threw me into the deep end.

Moving to a foreign country with my family was difficult for all of us, we all had to adapt and change, none more than myself though. Being the youngest I let go of all I was taught in Africa and embraced the new routines and customs my family had adopted.

That's where it turned sour. The strict Muslim parenting style lost all authority for my older siblings, they were in a country where drinking and smoking and pre marital relations weren't frowned upon and apparently this was exciting to them.

For the sake of this not sounding so biographical I'll skip the gory details and just say that some of them flew off the rails, and are living with addictions and memories that they can't shake.

Where do I fit into all of this? Well, I was abused, I still am yet I deny it even to myself. I think that now I recognise the abuse in all its forms that it no longer affects me- but just because you can see the knife entering you doesn't mean that it hurts any less does it. Doesn't mean that you're not being stabbed. When I was a child, the knife was in my back, it was on the back of my knees keeping me down and slicing away. Now that I've grown it feels like the knife is before my eyes, not hiding behind anymore but carelessly striking at my face, making me lie, and hide away from anyone, ruining my self esteem and worth and confidence.

The cause of the abuse runs deep, through my culture and my shortcomings as a child and sister through the eyes of my parents and siblings. Physical abuse is often just the first layer. A beaten and broken bird can still fly but the fear invoked is what will keep it rooted to the ground. That thing, almost like fear but feels too much like anxiety, which unsettles you when you're about to tell your parents some big news, or when you've realised you've forgotten to carry out that favour you're sibling asked of you. That's the emotional abuse.

They don't trust you. You've screwed up again. They're right, you're a failure, give up. You're worthless.

Your behaviour becomes determined on what would please the ones closest to you, or what would displease them the least. It's scary, really, really scary. I've known it my whole life. Choosing someone else's path instead of my own out of fear and submission. Moreover, the internalization of your own weakness for submitting so easily- even though you know it's fear that grips you- is what keeps you awake at night.

So you're dreams are dead? You're not going to succeed in that career path... Imagine how very disappointed your mother's going to be. She did say you were lazy from the start.Your dreams mean nothing.

It's like, your whole life you're at a crossroads. Trying to decided on whether to follow you're own goals and aspirations only to find yourself forced or even subconsciously following the path carved out for you. If this were one of those fancy short young adult infoads then at this point there’d be a split screen depicting one neon path and one with some horriblely illustrated ghouls. And it wouldn’t be inaccurate, as with every step you grow more tired, drag your feet just a little more. You're failing, you're no good but you keep going because this is what they want and your opinions don't matter.

And I'm stuck at that crossroads, it feels like the first circle of hell. My reluctance to chose a path results in the piercing words screamed in my ears. You're worthless. Your life means nothing.

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