I’ve always felt that the “c” acronym in c-suite for chief was a misnomer and the proper nomenclature was cock. “Cock Executive Officer,” “Cock Operations Officer,” “Cock Technology Officer,” “Cock ‘I’ll Make Up a Title’ Officer,” etc. etc. The cock-suite is filled with men where the only thing larger than the size of their balls, are their inflated egos. The cock-suite spend most of their time fighting amongst each other on important company matters such as comparing whose dick is bigger. The size of each dick is measured by their range of control.
The cock-suite told me I need to work on my personal branding…
Said they want to “invest in me” and craft a better “public image”
Aka be more like them
Less like me
But I don’t want to be buried in a suit
Every time I go to work I feel like I’ve got on this ugly ass ill-fitted suit
But I make it work even if I’m uncomfortable because I understand this is the uniform to do the job
In between the smiles, the handshakes, the seconds to breathe between meetings – my mind fasts forwards through the day –
and I can’t wait
I just can’t wait to get home
I fantasize about taking off this damn suit
Shaking my hair loose
Letting my breasts breathe
Branding is corporate speak for assimilation
So what they tellin me is that now I can never take off my suit
It’s crazy how the same suit that gets you in the door
Editing is exhausting – it’s the rewriting, the rethinking, blah, blah. Sometimes I just want to write how I feel, in real time. And not give a fuck about the reach of the reader or even if there’s an audience. So, I’m doing just that. There’s so much freedom in expressing yourself in real time – the first time without all the added fluff and bullshit.
Today, I took out my nipple piercings and my belly button piercings. To most, it’ll seem like a non-event. But for whatever reason, it made me quite emotional. I realized I sort of did it for attention – to be viewed as edgy, or a modern woman, to claim my body first and its display. I wanted to feel desired, unique, in control. It’s weird how symbolic I made a material item and pinch of the skin that took seconds.
My belly button piercing I got when I was 16. I was in and out of my Mamaiay’s custody at the time and trying to figure out the emancipated minor system. Long story short, it’s fucked. I never had a say in where I went or stayed. My belly button piercing was the only way I knew how to take back control of my body and feel a bit rebellious. I did it myself.
My nipple piercings I got in March before my 29th birthday, exactly one year after I was sexually assaulted. It took me weeks of physical therapy to retrain my pelvic floor before I could use the bathroom comfortably again. I was an emotional mess this month, my counselor said it’s because our bodies keep score. She said our bodies sense anniversaries of traumatic events and relives them. Ornating my body helped me feel like it was more mine. From the inside out I was working out daily with my trainer to become stronger. From the outside in I felt sexy and powerful when my nipple rings would poke through my shirts when I didn’t wear a bra. Something about a nipple ring makes men pause. I required thought.
I’m reading this book right now called “The Untethered Soul” and there’s a chapter that talks about thorns and how we as humans deal with pain. Instead of taking out the thorn, which is our source of pain, we just implement guard rails that reduce the risk of aggitating the thorn and reactiving the pain. We build better and better protective tools, we trick ourselves into thinking the pain is no longer there. I think that’s what I did, I tried to brush the pain aside with pretty little gems sewn into my flesh. Cheap temporary jewerly, for a cheap temporary solution.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt like my body was mine – I always felt friction and suspectible to unwanted dialogue, critique, or touch from society, family, lovers, church, friends. A constant tug and pull of do I want to be invisible or do I reclaim my body by intentionally being seen?
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Baby you got to wipe your lenses I ain’t talkin’ bout just them glasses neither Got all this soot talkin’ bout you can’t see clear Can’t see it for what it is, just what you think Walkin’ round like folks out here tryna get you Like they aint got they own battles they losin’ See the thing about the world baby It’s crueler than you could ever conceive And kinder than you could ever imagine Make sure you wipe ‘em lenses real good baby Rub the glass down to its bone You gonn’ see your reflection Realize what you see ain’t the world No that ain’t the world baby That’s just You
The people of this world are like the three butterflies in front of a candle’s flame. The first one went closer and said: I know about love. The second one touched the flame lightly with his wings and said: I know how love’s fire can burn. The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed. He alone knows what true love is.