Don’t let it show

So punk rock with my multi-colored rat tail I sit on the floor of my bedroom and cut the sleeves off my clothes, alter my grandfathers pants so I can wear them without showing my butt and practice applying my eyeliner until I can do it without making my eyes look like tiny slits. I only love ugly shoes and if they are strange colored or oddly shaped they must be mine. I wear as much jewelry as I can cram onto my beaded vintage sweater and I purposefully put holes in my tights. I am so punk rock.

I make earrings out of household objects like that leaded crystal sun catcher from California and pieces of sewing things tied together with wire. I pierce my own ears. I keep trying to do more on my right ear but it always gets infected to I torture my left one and have 4 on one side. One on the right. I am so punk rock.

I wear really short dresses and skirts with tights and tall boots. I wear lace shirts and my black bra shows through just like Madonna. I wear bright red lipstick and smoke unfiltered cigarettes and lots of black eyeliner on my top eyelid. I want to be Bridget Bardot with big boobs and bombshell ways but end up more like the mom on Bewitched except I don’t wear giant tent like dresses.  I shop for vintage finds, old jackets that smell like old ladies and I pierce my nose. On the left because the lady who does it with a plastic ear piercing gun says I am unmarried and the right means married. It hurts like hell and I go to the Mount Royal Tavern and drink peppermint schnapp boiler makers at 4 in the afternoon and I am so punk rock.

I met a boy and we hook up. We stayed hooked up and live together. I don’t color my hair for a whole year. I just forget. I don’t wear nearly as much jewelry. I don’t shop anymore because I can’t make my way around Boston in the snowiest winter in like 176 years. My wardrobe fades to a shadow of its former self. I wear my boyfriends t-shirts and wool skirts with boots and tights. I am grungy and so punk rock.

I live on in wedded bliss for many years and we decide to have a baby. We will give him a mohawk. He will wear jean jackets and we will paint his toenails black. We have another baby and she wears onesies that say “Formula is for pussies” and we braid her hair and she wears black tights and t-shirts with cowboy boots. I sleep little, have a small human attached to my boob for 6 straight years. I am fatter, softer and clumsy. I am not the striding confident gal in a lace shirt, black bra and bright red lipstick holding and unfiltered cigarette. I am mama. I am wifey-poo. I am student. I am the establishment.

I am so punk rock.