Friday, 29 August 2008
Once every six months or so I forget that what I really want in life is a respectable job, money and the ability to walk down a beach in swimming trunks unashamed when I'm fifty and I get another tattoo. Last night I went round this super friendly guy Liam's house and he outlined my new 'piece' (that's what you call them, you never, ever call them 'tats', it sounds retarded, but so does 'piece', so call them what you want I suppose). I always wait six months because it takes that long to forget that a) just before it starts I always get terrible anxiety about how this new tattoo will affect my life forever because it might change the way people view me or any potential future wives won't want their kids raised by a tattooed thug and I'll die poor and alone, b) getting a new tattoo always reminds me of my own mortality as I know this image will still be with me when I'm on my death bed, and then I just get thinking about how I've lived my life so far and I get a bit depressed and c) it FUCKING hurts, so, so, so fucking much, especially if it goes over a non-fleshy bit like this one did (it kind of goes onto my shin) and it's so close to being unbearable that I find myself planning unrelated excuses to leave, like pretending I just got a text saying my mother's died and running out. Anyway, Liam is colouring this in next week and doing an Elvis portrait on me as well, which will be cool. I am a retard and I wish I could grow up and spend my money more sensibly.