It’s mornings like this that
It's mornings like this that make you wonder what the real origin of the tattoo cherry is and why people flock to generic designs instead of cultivating the popularity of originality. If there were no generic tatt designs to choose from and everyone either brought original work to their inker or commissioned custom work each time, tattoos would be like snowflakes. I am all angsty this morning like a coffeehouse warrior poet that searches magazines in doctors offices for sermon substance. I began to freeze a little booty off this morning when I left the house, but between my loathing the mere inkling of stepping foot in this fluorescent prison for the next eight to ten hours and my throbbing neck pain, I soon forgot the temperature and it's ill effects on my bare legs and arms and focused on what it is exactly I was going to fill the fleeting moments of my Halloween spare time with from start to finish. The answer is abso-fucking-lutely nothing. I am going to go home and do nothing. Which brings me to this conundrum. I long for that nothingness already and it's early in the day. I need to spin some wheels and somehow make now into later without me actually realizing it. Saying is the easy part... doing is the hard part. Kinda like RealLife™.
I’m gonna get one some day! Some day my tatt will come! (or cum?) And it won’t be no stinkin’ generic bullshit either. Happy f*ckin’ halloween.
tatoo cherry?
I think if you even get a tattoo, you’ve already latched onto a sort of fad. I don’t condemn that though. People are people, let ‘em do what they want. Live and let live, as they say. Let ‘em follow fads. Doesn’t hurt me any. Where does that word come from anyway. “Fad.” What a strange word.
Dictionary.com says fad is “possibly from fidfad, fussy person, fussy, from fiddle-faddle.”
I KNOW, RIGHT??
Butterflies, hearts, blood-dripping roses, daggers...*shudder*
I always ask people this when they are consulting with me on a tat...."Do you want to be seventy, sitting on a bedpan, with a tat of Taz on your wrinkly old ass?”
The advice I always, ALWAYS give, though, is, “Pick a piece. Look at it every day for six months. Ruminate over it. Ponder it closely before affixing it to your bod.”
And some of these fucktards still get butterflies, hearts, blood-dripping roses and daggers...*shudder* There’s just no accounting for taste.
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