For reasons too varied and involved to go into, three women have recently confessed to me that they have tattoos. Not only that, but they show remarkable consistency in their placement – two are of the spiky, neo-Maori abstract variety on the small of the back, and the last a butterfly on a hip.
I’ve never really understood our generation’s infatuation with tattoos. Did I miss a memo? My brother and sister, who have not spoken to each other for ten years, have independently acquired almost identical celtic crosses on their upper right arms. Whoever tells them, it’s not going to be me.
Whatever. Tired of swimming against the tide, I have finally succumbed and gotten myself what was meant to be a bucking bronco, but inevitably more closely resembles My Little Pony. I even had a scroll added with “Ride ‘Em Cowboy” on it to distinguish it more clearly, but that has only made matters worse, given where it’s located.
According to the terms of their injunction, I am now required to point out that I am not affiliated with Mattel in any way. Damn them and their legalistic quibbles.
So, what tattoos do you have?
This was not what I had in mind, dammit!