The Politics of Piercing Your Nose

Ok, MY nose anyway.

I still cannot justify piercing my nose. I thought about it for a while, but I could not, and can not really say why I wanted it because I don’t know. Somehow, I felt that a piece of metal lodged in my nose would make me really happy. Guess what? Four hours later, I still don’t regret it. In the end, I decided that I thought about it so much that I might as well just do it.

Neither of my parents approved, of course, but they realized that I am an autonomous human being (ha ha ha…) with full control over her body physically, mentally, and legally.

Somehow, I talked my dad into taking me to our friendly neighborhood tattoo parlor.
When we got there, I signed some paperwork, talked to various guys in hoodies and mustaches, and finally was led to a room with skateboards and calendars of semi-nude woman nailed to the wall. Before I sat down, my Artist (yes, they prefer that title) asked me which side I wanted the piercing on. For some reason, I had not thought of that. “Um, I don’t know! What do you suggest?” I very stupidly asked. My Artist, however, replied with a very not stupid answer. He said the greatest thing he could have possibly said, and something I hope to never forget: “I dunno. It doesn’t mean anything anyway.” HELL YEAH. That’s how I knew I was in good hands. He’s so right. Like, why would anyone give I shit what I do or do not have on my face? If my face bothered someone that much, then 1) this person needs to do something with his/her life because being preoccupied with mine just seems so sad and frivolous and 2) am I really THAT important?????? Thanks????? I guess??????????

Why does anyone get a tattoo or piercing? Why do people wear make-up? Why do we do so many superfluous things? Because we are vain. Because we feel that somehow these things will make us more attractive; they will somehow make us feel better about ourselves. And there is nothing wrong with that. I seem to recall that religion and society in general look down on vanity. I, for one, think that there is nothing wrong with thinking that I, at a particular moment in time, think that I look very attractive. I like going out and feeling good because I know that I look good. I also know that I have qualities that go further than the superficial. I know that I make a conscious effort to be respectful and kind.
Unfortunately, there exists a faction that thinks that I am a respectable human being until I stick a metal into my face. Or color my body with ink and a needle. Or put on seductive clothes. Or paint my lips red. Or wear tall heels. Or… well, anything that is not proper for a “lady.” That’s the garbage that I’m told. That I’m not being proper. It’s sad to know that propriety is defined by the body and not the quality of character. My propriety is defined by those who think that I am still property.

Unfortunately, I am still nearly the same person I was four hours ago. I still find pleasure in taking naps at 3:30 pm. I still really love my dog. I still read books. I still think that socialism is pretty great. I still listen to Drake and pretend that it’s ok. I still make really bad jokes. And puns. Like, I think this nose stud thing might not have changed me very much. Oh, but I do feel about .000000003353774% edgier, in case you were wondering. But that might just be the pain in my right nostril. Can’t really tell. My head is pretty inflated.

One last thing. My extended family will disapprove. Not only because it’s a nose piercing, but also because it’s MY nose piercing. I’ve always been seen as “The Good One” because I have not gotten pregnant, dropped out of school, and somehow got into college. I have failed my kin because I have a shiny thing on my face. It sucks. But honestly, do I really want to communicate with people who think less of me because of something I wanted to do because I thought I would feel better? Hellz nah. Friends, family, you are free to excommunicate me from your shallow circle. See you in hell, I guess!*

*Just kidding. I won’t see you in Hell. Because I’m not going to Hell. Because I don’t believe in Hell. There’s strike two. You guys really must not like me, huh?

Please Can U Not

can u please not breach the threshold into full beardom because my ovaries cannot even handle that

please can u not

please

u can not

think of my feelings

full beards

too much

to handle

i am not ready

actually yes i am very ready bring on the beard please

can u please

bring in the beards

~Michelle Ochobufalos, 2013

————————-a profound poem by your truly. and yes i accept your nobel prize.

I Just Realized that I’ve Never been Wrong about Anything

Initially this was something I had thought about tweeting. My twitter is appropriately (self-)described as a place to post my vagaries, my transient reflections on the world. According to Twitter, I have a soft, soft, soft spot for hyperbole. I am equal parts cynical and optimistic, and both qualities constantly fight to be in the lime light. If this denotes a mild case of social issues, I’m not sure, but I do know that other people SOMETIMES seem to think that I am funny. But this is beside the point; we ALL know that I am always hilarious 100% of the time every day and wherever I may be.

So today I realized that I have never been wrong about anything. I know! Wait! I know! Before you say “Duh, of course,” let me pose a hypothetical. Imagine a parallel universe in which I have been wrong, at least once. Just one time I was wrong in this universe. Now, suppose I had said “Man, I” ……..-Ima interrupt this hypothetical to let you know that I’ve spent exactly three minutes trying to think of something I could say that could be wrong. This is harder than I thought-

“Man, it really smells like chlorine in here.” Suppose I said that. Then imagine some smartass, no good garbage-eating harlequin comes up to my kool-aid and says “Mmm. Well, Michelle, you are most certainly wrong. Hehe. The smell you smell is actually the smell of roses. Hehe. You were wrong this time. Hehe. Goodbye now.”

And what if I adamantly insisted that it smelled of chlorine? If I fundamentally believed it was chlorine, then I was never wrong. Chlorine, flowers, these are arbitrarily assigned to help us relate our world to others. The fact that I deviated from the prescribed procedure is a mutation of my understanding. It’s not so much that I was wrong as much as it was that I assigned the label differently from the rest of society, whether accidentally or deliberately. Different is not wrong; it is a beast of its own. As long as I believe something to be true, it is true to me. And it would be so silly to say “I believe” or “I think” before EVERY statement that I made. These qualifiers are implicit with everything I have ever said. I don’t really care what other people think, anyway. They’re usually wrong.

I’m 2 Chainz; I’m different.

Yeah, I’m different.

Roll up to the… nevermind bye

I once dated a writer and

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them –
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful
because
they’re busy
remembering
the important things.

unknown, found on tumblr.com