ink

Sweet tatt.

I’m rolling up my sleeves. No, I’m not about to perform hard labor or enter a bare-knuckle boxing ring with Frankie the Forehead, I’m showing you my tattoos. What? Just because I’m married and wear collared shirts and have a crippling fear of moths I can’t cover my body in sweet tatts? That’s prejudicial. In fact, isn’t that what Jane Austen’s classic tale, Pride and Prejudice, is about? If my terrible memory serves me correctly, the story is about a grizzled tattoo artist, Mister Davey, and this high-strung broad named Liz Benson who hates everything except sweet tatts. That’s about right, isn’t it? I sure hope so, because that was the gist of the essay I wrote for the SAT’s II. I never did see the test results, though-probably because our proctor had a fainting spell in the middle of the test. It was on the news and everything. What was I talking about again? Ah, yes. Tattoos. OK, I don’t actually have any, but I have always been secretly obsessed with body ink. There’s something so…idiotically poetic about the whole endeavor. If you have a tattoo, you’re basically telling the world, “I have artistic sensibilities and a strong lack of foresight.” For instance, yesterday I met someone who has a bridge tattooed on their entire back. I won’t say which bridge, just in case this person is ever brought in for police questioning (I’m no snitch). But, I assure you, it is a bridge. A big, beautiful bridge. So while I don’t have any tattoos…yet, I am seriously considering getting one. Maybe an elevator shaft on my forearm. Or a butterfly.