You know that’s permanent, right?

Standard
 When I was fourteen my BFF was this girl who lived down the road in the trailer park and drank Captain Morgan’s and Snapple at school. She talked this guy into giving her a tattoo of the name of whatever Supersonic’s jersey wearing punk she was dating at the time.  I was naïve and sheltered and had never had the privilege of making out with a q-tip skinny boy in the woods behind the Seventh day Adventist church. I make her out to far more badass than she really was; nevertheless we assembled at this guys house one day after school to watch him give her a tattoo using Bic ink, a safety-pin he used to hold his Misfit’s patch on his leather jacket and a spool of fuchsia thread he took from his mom’s craft closet. (Suburbia is so hardcore.)  
 
After the tattoo was done she stopped talking to  him and the boy would call her and sing Blue until she would hang up on him. True Story.
 
I love tattoo’s. When I was seventeen I lied to a tattoo artist (who I’m fairly certain was Charlton Heston from the Ten Commandments) that I forgot my ID in the car. To which he replied, “I don’t care just give my forty bucks.” and probably something about coveting my neighbors ass. Which I do not appreciate being told what to do! Maybe I liked coveting my neighbors ass, fucking Moses!   
 

 I am a huge pansy, so after I get one I say never again. Then time passes and one day I get impulsive. Every tattoo I have, was an impulsive decision. As Twilight is my whole life right now I am trying to tell myself that I don’t need a Twilight tattoo. But my self-control is wavering. Originally I wanted to get this one.       

 
Simple and if you’re not a total twifreak you wouldn’t know the implications.
  
I know the consequence of the choice you’re making.
  
As my grandmother reminded me during my bridal shower in front of my family, friends and that dumb woman I invited but don’t really like any ways but some one mentioned that she really wanted to come…Where was I? Right, tattoo’s are permanent, an etching on your skin of all your youthful misgivings. That time when you swore that no one could ever rock you like Tom DeLonge and you thought Dammit was your mother fucking ANTHEM, man!  
 
We know that it’s permanent and yet I keep seeing photographic proof of  our twiways out there.
  

Rar!

 

not understanding the tree. The meadow maybe?

 

Took me a real long time to read this

 

Nothing says sexy like punched in the face Rob

 

 

      

 
 
 
 

Mixing your annuals and your perennials, major fail

 

I tease but I am pretty certain the next time I’ve had a few too many mojitos I will be laying face down in a leather chair being worked over by some guy named Shit House Martinez. And the final product will be better than all of these. I guarantee you.

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