Tattoos are everywhere. You can’t get your groceries bagged without the kid showing off the latest he worked two weeks to pay for after spending sixteen weeks agonizing over his original design. I’ve overheard a mother comparing tats with her kids nanny. It seems as if you can’t shake a COO without a tat popping out.
I’m fine with that. Go deep with your individuality just like everyone else!
I’ve been around tatted folk my entire life. Way before it was hip. Back then a tramp stamp was the mark a father made across his promiscuous daughters face. It was an outsiders demarcation. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.
And, outside of some military people, you’d be hard pressed to get a reason why they got the tat out of them.
And THAT I’m not fine with.
Why do you have to show me every tat you’ve purchased then tell me a long winded story about each one? Do you honestly think anyone cares? Okay, let’s say you do, let me help you with that?
You are delusional.
I’m not even going to get into the art factor. If you think it’s good, awesome. My opinion shouldn’t matter. Even if I think that memorial tat makes the deceased look like Gollum so I doubt they’d be happy to be memorialized in that fashion.
I have to cut this woman a break because 1) she didn’t know my feelings about tat stories and 2) didn’t know who or what I really am. Not that I’m happy about cutting her slack but, for the betterment of society, do.
All of the stories, over a dozen by my benumbed recollection, were long, involved, and heart-warming. Which is totally the opposite of how I actually like stories which is, short, simple, and funny (or disturbing. Yeah, I’m a man of many levels).
Just so you don’t think I brought this upon myself, I didn’t ask about any of her tats, I didn’t look at any of her tats, as a matter of fact, I didn’t even know she was there. My back was to her. I was watching the game. She poked the monster and began.
It was unexpected, unwanted, and uncalled for. Yes, I was a victim of ear rape.
After contorting into various shapes so she could show me each tat, she begins to tell me the locations of future tats (note to her loved ones: DON’T DIE! HOLD OUT! She only has so much skin area so scratch off that DNR and ask for super-heroic measures to keep you alive). Let me tell you, she’s put more thought into this than she did her SAT’s!
Ah, that’s a joke. She didn’t take the SAT’s!
After listening to her deeply touching stories of love, lost, hope and tetanus she asks if I have any tats. I tell her that I have one but it’s not in a place that’s easily accessible in a public location. She says he understands but, wanting to hear my story of human will, asks if I could find it in my to reveal my deeply emotional story.
“Yes,” I say wiping away a tear (yes, I had a tear. I am only human so can only hold in laughter for so long before something gives. She’s lucky this time it was only a tear). “I have a tat that will always remind me never to trust my drunken, stupid ass friends.”
Hey! She didn’t even hang around long enough for me to describe it. I listened to all her stories! Why don’t I get the same courtesy?
I guess sometimes life’s not fair.
Maybe I should tat about that?