Tattoodle Loo

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Unfortunately, I don’t have a cool prison story to accompany this memory. Not that I did for others either…

Anyway, I’ve always been too incredibly fickle to desecrate my body with primitive adornments of the ink variety. Not only fickle, but frugal. $50 goes a long way in the refrigerated cookie dough section of the supermarket.

My fear of permanent ink may have also stemmed from the idle threats my Dad would always dole out regarding tattoos and cigarettes. Yes, threatening to turn someone over their knee at the age of 22 works wonders.

So of course, what better way to honor my father’s memory than by inscribing his siggy forever on my wrist? Perf.

I had thought about this idea for months and decided it would be my birthday present to him.

My biggest fear was selecting a parlor and a permanent location on my body (nothing tantalizing!). Luckily, my co-worker is a plethora of knowledge in all things hip. She instructed me where and, well, where to get tattoo. May 1st, was a perfect day to get a tattoo (pay no attention to the three-month timeline behind the curtain…). This had nothing to do with attitude or planetary alignments, but everything to do with payday. As long as withdrawals and debits are aligned, my attitude is no issue.

Waiting was the hardest part. Sitting in the lounge, watching customers come and go, perusing previous masterpieces all made for higher than expected anticipation levels. Did that guy really just get an entire sleeve colored in? Yes. Does it look gross? Very.

It was finally my turn. I sit. I watch needles. I watch needles as they are dipped in ink. I watch needles as they are dipped in my skin.

OWIE.OWIE.OWIE.OWIE!

I am now fully awake and completely aware my perusing hours are over.

Me.

Inked.

Me.

The girl who perfects swirls on her cupcakes is getting a tattoo. Or should I say muthafuggin’ cupcakes? I’m officially on the road to being a monumental badass (it’s all relative. shuddup.).

I start planning my biker bar hopping escapades and how I’m going to break in my soon-to-be new leather jacket. Does my hair look best peroxide blond and windblown? Or perhaps completely shaved? Do I know how to re-build a carburetor? Who will accept my collect calls from prison?

Ten minutes later and the tat is done. Yes, I said tat. I’m cool now, remember? It looks amazing and makes me feel two inches close to complete again.

Cartharsis. In a tattoo parlor. Try it.

So I saddle up the hog (read: entry-level 4-cyclinder Jeep Patriot in Rudy Red (birthstone!)) and drive to the nearest pub (read: grocery store) and seek out my latest victim (read: chocolate chip cookie dough).

As I’ve found out, there’s always room for a little of everything.

Except in prison.

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