I think sometimes about buying a shitty car to drive myself around the cold and distant streets of Toronto. All it takes is one subway ride, however, for me to realize where my place is - amidst the crowds, in the sweaty subway cars, one hand raised above me exposing my tattoos and scars, feet firmly planted so that with every turn I keep upright, and don't topple into the people standing next to me.

My favourite part of my morning subway ride, however, is having people stare at me! Couples pointing, and speaking in some undistinguishable language, looking back to their boyfriends, husbands, wives, friends and selves.

"She'll never get a job looking like that."

Thank you for asking me if I'm employed. Because I am. And I intend to get all of my jobs in the future looking "like this." My appearance seems to disrupt the normalcy of the ever-changing universe. People can't wrap their heads around the idea that I might be an educated, intellectual person, even though I have piercings, tattoos, short dyed hair, and an interesting sense of style.

Is my education worth less because I stick metal through my flesh; because I enjoy not only the look of the piercing, but the burning sensation that metal produces when it pushes through skin?

Is my intelligence down-graded because I express how I feel inside through my clothing, as opposed to dressing in the way that society wants me to?

Does my diploma mean less because I mark my skin with scars and ink, in an attempt to show the world who I am? Does it make me less worthy of employment?

We could sing "Oh Corporation," instead of "O Canada," but then, it doesn't really fit with the music. Why are people so baffled by the idea that I can employable and educated?

"Omygod, look at her!"

Yes. Look at me. I like the attention. I like having people ask me if things hurt, or randomly pulling up the back of my shirt to read the text that lies engraved on my skin. Look at my hair, and ask me questions about it. I'd rather you ask, then look, however. If you ask, I can explain.

I can tell you that I am educated, that I'm in university, that I have a job. I can tell you that my parents love me, regardless of how I express myself. I can tell you that I'm a dyke. I can tell you that I'm a boi. I can tell you that my scars are the roads that I've travelled. I can tell you that my tattoos are a reminder of why I live. I can tell you that my piercings are not a fashion statement - I am not conforming to the current standards of "cool". In fact, I hate that piercing is now considered "cool" and popular. It takes away from my reasons for doing it. I can tell you that I hurt, and that I cry.

And so, I continue to take the subway, if only to educate people on their own ignorance. I sit, reading classical literature in hopes that while you stare at my face, you'll glance down towards the book that I'm reading, and maybe see me for something more than a freak. I will continue to pierce my body, tattoo my skin, and prick myself to produce blood.

So, why not look at yourself and your life, and then ask yourself why you see me as so different from you? Because really, I'm not. I bleed, cry, get angry and all the rest. I just express myself differently. I am you. Scary thought, isn't it? With all my complexities, I am you.

So, please, judge me, so that I can educate you on the ways of the world. So that I can break you of your ignorance.

Who needs a car, really?