At A Glance
Author	Bee
Contact	[email protected]
When	N/A

This is about everything, and yet, at the same time nothing in particular. It's a message to the world and a private note to myself. Do I really want everyone to know what I'm thinking?

So I'm sitting here in my usual attire, looking if I say so myself, pretty damn lovely, with a cup of coffee and I feel compelled to write. About what? I don't know; I'll see where this takes me.

I love my parents, don't get me wrong, they're beautiful people, they've given me everything I want since I was a kid, but they don't understand my reasons for modifying my body. It makes me wonder � do any parents really understand? I have apologized so many times for not being perfect, like my sister; for not being that happy go lucky girl, blonde hair flicking in the wind, and little puppy at my heels. I'm sorry, that's not me.

I'm the girl with piercings, that is learning how to tattoo, that has purple hair and stretched ears. The one that play pierces and falls in love with the bruises. I like to give them names. That's how personal they are to me. I'm happy but my parents seem to think I need help, because, quite simply, shoving needles through my skin is the action of a seriously ill little girl.

My modifications, although hardly extreme have turned into something no one in my family want to talk about but everyone ends up arguing over. My mother thinks her little girl is corrupt, and that's heartbreaking, because all I'm doing is altering my image so I fall in love with my reflection.

I'd like it if the world stopped asking, 'did that hurt'? Well, of course it bloody did. But it's a good pain. I leave the latter part out. I don't need anyone else pitying me because I'm 'mentally ill' and 'psychologically damaged'. I'd like it if the world stopped thinking I was incapable of doing a job because of a few tiny metal bars and rings. Oh yes, that's right amber plugs in my ears make me stupid. I forgot I couldn't string a sentence together. People are so na�ve and it makes me sick.

But my heart goes out to them, because I used to be that way, and maybe I still am. I see a girl walking down the street in baby pink with huge gold earrings and light blue eye shadow, Burberry handbag � and I judge her. I know that when she opens her mouth it'll be a grating South London accent. But as a whole, I can't stand that 'community' (can I call them that)? It's not for lack of trying; our opinions and beliefs are so very different we can't find anything to say. So maybe that's how people look at me.

Whilst I can spend an afternoon talking about piercings, tattoos, cuttings or whatever, these people that judge me might talk about golf or the MMR jab their kids had last week at school. And I yawn and think, 'how boring'.

Am I boring?

Whilst I may be fascinated by lip sewing and suspensions, others may find me repulsive. I like to think I wouldn't look at someone and judge them the way they judge me; I'm inclined to think that I do. It's nothing personal, just a difference of opinion. It's heartbreaking because I hate hypocrites but I am one. I hate those who are judgmental, but that's me all over. I hate people who say one thing and mean another, but I myself am a walking contradiction.

I would like to think that I could stop moaning about people not understanding me or judging me. But I judge those that judge me. I'll sit, and I'll scrutinize someone, trying to figure them out, to decode them. But my conclusion is invariably wrong. It's pot luck. I should be satisfied that I feel beautiful in my own skin, something, which amongst teenage girls is rare. I should be satisfied that my boyfriend adores me and tells me so everyday. I have people who love and respect me and that's enough. Maybe I'm jut greedy.

As I grow older, I hope, like so many others, to enter the body modification industry where I can express myself to people that truly do understand, that feel the same way as me. I'd love to ink my artwork onto somebody and have them walk down the street with the entire world as their audience. I imagine it would be an incredible feeling. How is it my parents can understand and support my sisters artwork and yet not mine? How is it that ink and needles are so very different from oil pastels and charcoal? They see it as self harm, that's all. And yes, I did go through the whole teenage angst thing, and yes, I still cut occasionally. But I can control that now. It's special to me now.

So like I said at the beginning, this is just something I felt compelled to write. There's no single meaning to it, but at the same time it covers a lot. I hope in years to come I can look back at this and feel differently. I hope I can stop being contradictory and that people, too, will look at me and see who I really am. Maybe one day, when I myself, have more respect for people, they'll start to respect me, too. I've brought this upon myself.