Enough already.
All right; enough of this laff-fest; it’s time to get serious.
No, really, but I do mean to apologize to my tens of thousands of readers if the last few posts have been not only few and far between, but also…a total freaking bummer.
Hardly the light-hearted romp I originally intended, and so, today, we’ll move on, to a subject on the minds of all at this juncture in world events:
My tattoo.
No, wait—Come back! I admit, I feel weird and self-absorbed bringing it up, even when people ask me about it. Like, the other day, a regular customer of the coffeeshop where I work intermittently, asked me about it.
Nice lady:“Oh, you have a tattoo! Is that new?”
Alice: “Yeah. It’s my first one.” [Elaborate shrug accompanied by grin and eye-roll—to illustrate that I am not Wacky Tattoo Girl who will proceed to trap listener with a Multitude of Stories about her various tattoo experiences like she’s the First Person on the Planet Ever to Get Tattooed.]
Nice lady: “Wow. It’s really big. Did it hurt?”
Alice [still grinning in a calculated self-deprecating manner]: “Yeah. It…yeah, it hurt!”
Nice Lady: “I could never do that. It’s pretty. It’s your first one??”
Alice: “Yeah…[Torrent o’ words:] It is. And it hurt like hell! I mean, it really hurt. But I’d been wanting one—just like this—for a few years and everyone, I guess, was just sick of my talking about it and so I finally, I just did it! And all the guys at Liberty [the tattoo place] were like, totally impressed that it was my first one, so that was cool. But—yeah. Yeah.”
In reality, I am obsessed with this tattoo. I just got it colored in on Sunday. This is a euphemism. I didn’t look too hard at the needles the guy used, but they didn’t feel like Crayolas. My friend Rita was there, though, to hold my hand and she and her son brought me falafel and lemonade to consume during a break and I leaned waay over to drink the lemonade because the tattoo is on my chest and I was fixated on not spilling the lemonade on my open-wound-in-progress.
And that night I came home and Hunter said I smelled like a Post Office, and it was true: the ink was totally smelly, and I felt loopy and stoned all night.
And yes, I want to talk about it to everyone. Right now, it’s peeling like a really bad sunburn of many colors. Soon, it will be totally healed and I will go days without really giving it a thought.
As recently as a few years ago, I thought I’d never get a tattoo: I just didn’t want anything marked on my body forever; I was fine just as I was, thank you.
But there’s another part of me left over from my childhood when I thought I’d do everything you can possibly do in life. Like, when I was 5, I was pretty much sure I would experience being a fireman and a rock star and giving birth.
So now, I get to experience the rock star bit, if only in my own, small way.
All right; enough of this laff-fest; it’s time to get serious.
No, really, but I do mean to apologize to my tens of thousands of readers if the last few posts have been not only few and far between, but also…a total freaking bummer.
Hardly the light-hearted romp I originally intended, and so, today, we’ll move on, to a subject on the minds of all at this juncture in world events:
My tattoo.
No, wait—Come back! I admit, I feel weird and self-absorbed bringing it up, even when people ask me about it. Like, the other day, a regular customer of the coffeeshop where I work intermittently, asked me about it.
Nice lady:“Oh, you have a tattoo! Is that new?”
Alice: “Yeah. It’s my first one.” [Elaborate shrug accompanied by grin and eye-roll—to illustrate that I am not Wacky Tattoo Girl who will proceed to trap listener with a Multitude of Stories about her various tattoo experiences like she’s the First Person on the Planet Ever to Get Tattooed.]
Nice lady: “Wow. It’s really big. Did it hurt?”
Alice [still grinning in a calculated self-deprecating manner]: “Yeah. It…yeah, it hurt!”
Nice Lady: “I could never do that. It’s pretty. It’s your first one??”
Alice: “Yeah…[Torrent o’ words:] It is. And it hurt like hell! I mean, it really hurt. But I’d been wanting one—just like this—for a few years and everyone, I guess, was just sick of my talking about it and so I finally, I just did it! And all the guys at Liberty [the tattoo place] were like, totally impressed that it was my first one, so that was cool. But—yeah. Yeah.”
In reality, I am obsessed with this tattoo. I just got it colored in on Sunday. This is a euphemism. I didn’t look too hard at the needles the guy used, but they didn’t feel like Crayolas. My friend Rita was there, though, to hold my hand and she and her son brought me falafel and lemonade to consume during a break and I leaned waay over to drink the lemonade because the tattoo is on my chest and I was fixated on not spilling the lemonade on my open-wound-in-progress.
And that night I came home and Hunter said I smelled like a Post Office, and it was true: the ink was totally smelly, and I felt loopy and stoned all night.
And yes, I want to talk about it to everyone. Right now, it’s peeling like a really bad sunburn of many colors. Soon, it will be totally healed and I will go days without really giving it a thought.
As recently as a few years ago, I thought I’d never get a tattoo: I just didn’t want anything marked on my body forever; I was fine just as I was, thank you.
But there’s another part of me left over from my childhood when I thought I’d do everything you can possibly do in life. Like, when I was 5, I was pretty much sure I would experience being a fireman and a rock star and giving birth.
So now, I get to experience the rock star bit, if only in my own, small way.
posted by Alice at 4:23 PM
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