Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Flock of Seagulls? No, those are fecking butterflies you moron!

Sometimes I'm a girl-brianed moron. Other times I'm just a straight up dumbass. This is one of those times.

When I was 18, I decided it was time to make a statement. I'm an adult. I'm independent. I can do what I want, damn it! And you know how I'm going to rebel? You wanna know what a bad ass I am? I'm going to get a tattoo! Yeah! A kick ass, hard-core frickin' TATTOO! Suck it, Authority!

Shirtless and ass - up in the air, I waited for my moment of liberation to come...

But, being the superior bad - ass that I am, I kept going... Finally, it was time for the big reveal.

Butterflies. Don't ask me why. I guess in my 18 year old girl-brained head, they seemed sure to be a timeless classic and something worthy of sticking with me for the rest of my life. Somehow, at the age of 18, I had a flock... no... a freaking SWARM of insects permanently etched into my skin.

All the same, I enjoyed the bragging rights to my newest addition.

But then... then things started changing.... Never mind that suddenly EVERY girl in my graduating class who wanted to piss off her daddy started showing up to school to show off her new tat... Never mind that it suddenly dawned on me that someday I'd be 80 and my butterflies would look a little less like winged beauties and a little more like melting moths... Or that 2 weeks after my tattoos, I sat at dinner with my best friend and my parents to overhear the following conversation:

Lindsey: I'm thinking about getting a tattoo on my 18th birthday.

My mom: (hand goes to her throat, looking horrified) Oh, honey. No. Don't. You're own mother would be so disappointed. I know if Kate ever did anything like that... well, I'd be devastated.

My step-dad: White-trash! That's white-trash! No daughter of mine would ever live under my roof with something like that on her skin! Over my dead, cold body!!!

Lindsey: (looking at me out of the side of her eye) Well, I was thinking something small, something cute. You know, like a butterfly.

My step-dad: Butterfly?! Gay.

No, no, what ruined the whole things was the emergence of a new phrase.

Say it with me : "Tramp stamp"

I defended my tattoos to the death.

Boy in class: Dude, you got a tramp stamp!

Me: It's not a tramp stamp, you idiot! My tattoos are on the lower RIGHT side of my back. Not the middle. Duh.

But even as the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I'd done. Laser removal sounded too expensive and too painful, so I started plotting additions to the design on my back that would lessen the tramp stampiness of the ink.

This is what I came up with - As you can see, I didn't have much luck.

Or maybe turning them into something super hard-core. Like a fire breathing raptor that smoked cigars!Or a reenactment of a totally melodramatic Denzel Washington-type hostage scene.
But really, this is about the best I could come up with...
*dramatic sigh*

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