Here’s another thing no one’s going to warn you about when you start to get tattoos: all of a sudden, once you’ve got a visible tattoo, every single person who has a small, sketchy-ass jailhouse looking* tattoo is going to think that you both belong to the same tattoo club, and they’re going to want to show you their “ink.”
SIDENOTE: The most shudder-inducing term, in my opinion? Tatty. “Hey, nice tatty!” Or, “I see you’ve got lots of tatties.” Like, just shoot me now. SRSLY.
Look, I’m not trying to say I’m cooler than you or anything. That’s not what I think. And I’m totally not one to judge other people’s tattoos (unless they’re just horribly done – then I feel sad and like I’m maybe a bit cooler than you**). I think you should get whatever makes you happy. And just because I wouldn’t get something tattooed on my own skin doesn’t mean I don’t love it or can’t appreciate it.
SIDENOTE: But not if it’s a swastika or something equally hateful. Then you’re just an asshole.
But what I find funny about the whole thing is that people with amazing, intricate, well-done tattoos aren’t the ones showing off their work, even though we should be (yeah, I totally just put myself in that category – shout outs to Brent and Aza, my wicked artists). The people sharing their work are people like the girl yanking her jeans down to show me her uneven, stereotypical tramp stamp. Or the 50-something guy pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show me his faded Tasmanian Devil tattoo that’s so blown out and blurry from age and sun or everything else that you can barely even tell what it is anymore. Or the girl looking at my full sleeve and then showing me the quarter-sized flower on her hip, all the while shouting, “OMG, I’ve got a tattoo, too!!!!!!”
Stuff like this:
So, is it:
That my tattoos are actually so ugly that people with worn out, badly done ones think we’re soul mates, Forget it, can’t even joke about that.
(b) That my tattoos are so nice that people with worn out, badly done ones feel like my approval is important,
or (c) That people are just really, really weird?
It’s (c). That’s one of the earliest lessons I learned. Like when I watched this boy named Morgan pick a GIANT booger out of his nose and eat it in Kindergarten. Or when this random girl in my grade 2 class dragged me into the bathroom stall with her and told me about how she doesn’t wear panties with her tights (she proved it, too, without me asking). Or when a guy decides it’s okay to force kiss you and lick your face during the process.
All I’m trying to say is unless we’re friends, please don’t just stop me and show me your tattoos. I didn’t ask. Would you stop me on the street to show me your new necklace? Shoes? Bra?***
P.S. Another for your viewing pleasure:
*That said, my uncle had this hilariously awful self-done tattoo on his leg and I kind of loved it.
**If they’re misspelled, I want to cry and my head feels like it’s going to explode.
***I’ve totally jinxed myself now. Bring on the random crazy-person fashion show.