In the past I’ve made some questionable life choices – wait, who am I kidding? I still make questionable life choices all the time. Whether the decision is what I’m going to do with the rest of my life or simply what I’m going to have for dinner – shit’s always debatable. This very fact, coupled with a random conversation I had recently concerning tattoos with a friend the other day lead me to have two, and only two, thoughts.
1. I really need to update my personal blog, and
2. I have made some really interesting life choices in regards to tattoos.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my tattoos and don’t have any actual regrets. I never ended up with a tribal band, Asian tramp stamp, or heart atop my cleavage (as of yet), so I’m not doing too bad for myself. I’d like to take this opportunity to take a walk, or perhaps just a jaunt, down memory lane and pay homage to the things I put on my body that can’t be scrubbed off with soap. Sorry Mom.
To be honest, I don’t know if these characters are Chinese, Japanese, or some sort of Asian language that I’ve never even imagine existed. Loosely defined I think the symbol means “I’m 16-years-old and the fact I’m getting a tattoo is the absolute balls – I don’t really care what it says.” My Mom may as well have endorsed a full on tramp stamp because I couldn’t have gone more cliché with my first tattoo if I tried.
The second tattoo I got was a copyright symbol followed by the year I was born: 1985. Not to date myself, but movies don’t really get any better than ‘Teen Witch’ and ‘Don’t Tell Mom the Baby-sitter’s dead.” This ink really works two-fold for me. First, I still feel like I’m knee slappingly witty when I share it with people. Secondly, if anyone ever doubts my age as it appears on my license – I’ve got backup. Being that I’m now creeping slowly but surely towards 30; this conundrum happens less than I’d like it to.
Some people may say that the third times the charm, but that wasn’t so much the case for me. On a whim I went down to Ye Olde Random Tattoo Shop in my college town and got this Celtic Tree. I think at the time I thought: “Well I like to climb trees, look at trees, and smoke them – this is a good idea.” 27-year-old Tanya can play it off as Irish charm (I’m 25%), but 27-year-old Tanya also often forgets this tattoo exists until it pokes its way out of a tank top and someone asks about it.
I got this tattoo in prison from my bitch. It gave me both street cred and added protection from when I “dropped the soap” in the shower. Really though, this happened during a really “intense” (and by intense I mean drunk) visit to Provincetown, Massachusetts during Memorial day weekend. At one point in the weekend I participated in some day-time beach drinking, took a nap, then woke up an hour later asking my friends what had happened the night before because I couldn’t remember. They then informed me that the night hadn’t yet happened; I had just taken a cat nap. Meow.
I would like to think at this point in time I had my shit together as far as decisions went regarding etching permanent designs into my body. This piece was straight up plagiarized from the book ‘The Little Prince,’ or as French peeps would call it; ‘Le Petite Prince.’ The text ‘on ne sait jamais’ means ‘one never knows’ in French. Do I know any French? Fuck no. Does I look cool and maybe a little bit cultured on top of that? Hell, yes.
On the theme of literary tattoos, I decided to pay homage to one of my favorite authors; Sylvia Plath. I mean she totally offed herself by sticking her head in an oven so what’s not to respect? I aspire to go out in a blazing fashion as well (pun intended.) The quote comes from a section in ‘The Bell Jar’ and reads: “I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” It’s essentially a book about being crazy, so it just kind of constantly reminds me that I am. Sometimes I want to use a sharpie and make it say things like “I am ____ (gay, drunk, awesome, et. al).
Last but not least is the breast of the best – my gypsy lady. While ‘My Big, Fat Gypsy Wedding’ ruined the whole illusion I had of gypsies being these cool, nomadic people who moved around being awesome, I still choose to honor gypsies on my body not as submissive whores who live in trailer parks, but how I want them to be in my brain. However, it should be stated that I am not opposed to over the top parties, slutty dresses, or male chauvinism.
People always want to know the deep an intimate details behind your tattoos whether they’ve known you for years or if they are assholes that just met you and have poor personal boundaries. Should anyone ask me in the future I will just refer them to this url and save the both of us a world of frivolous explanation and trouble.
The moral being this story is that there is no moral – tattoo whatever you want on your body; especially if it’s your cats face. It’s a great idea and if you don’t like it you can always either try nail polish remover or make fun of yourself later. The end.