This past Wednesday, I closed up a chapter in my life. Literally. My tongue ring had been closing up, due to the fact that I have been neglecting it by going days without wearing a tongue ring. Wednesday morning, I practically had to re-pierce the hole when I attempted to force the 12 gauge through. After hours of agitation while at work, I decided maybe it was time.
April 1, 2004. After several trips to True Blue, I was finally healthy enough to get my tongue pierced. (They refused my business previous times due to a compromised immune system...I really just had a bad cough, but whatever.) It was not nearly as bad as I imagined. In fact, I distinctly remember saying the cartilage piercing was more painful. I also remember seeing the small chunk of tongue-meat being removed prior to the bar being placed in the hole. Yum.
While a tongue piercing came with several innuendos, I truly just enjoyed it as an accessory. I know people passed judgment and came to certain conclusions based on a damn hole in my tongue. I, in a way, thrived on their ignorance. Maybe there were ties to sexual tendencies that made me play with the ring all the time. I had a horrible habit of biting on it and running it against my teeth. I went through several plastic spacers, swallowed many balls...I even had to get my teeth filed. But I loved my piercing. I loved it so much I even thought about getting a second one...but it was not possible, as my piercing was placed dead center between my frenulum and the tip of my tongue. No room.
My tongue ring reminded me of some of the best memories I have had. I associate a lot of those memories with my senior year, post-college, and the Zetas. I loved being able to casually show my tongue ring to random people, and taking note of how they reacted. I liked it because it was different. I liked it because it made me me. And now it is gone. Time for another piercing, perhaps?
