Never pays to get a loved ones name tattoo’d on you. Any old grandma could tell you this. Some would end up with hundreds of names scrawled all over them. Accordingly you may become to be known as STUPID, DUMB or, if the names are not hidden well enough,TOWN SLUT.
Have never really loved anyone enough to warrant a tattoo. Have HATED someone enough to get their name tattoo’d on the bottom of my foot. Have HATED their family enough to get an Angry Bird shitting on their family name on my arm.
What the fuck is this love thing you talk of anyway?
Turns out that love is sending someone a picture of your latest tattoo and then getting very worried when they don’t email, text, phone or come to you in your dreams for an eternity.
This goes on and on. You get worried sick. All the emails and words spoken flash before your eyes constantly. You stop eating. You sit at the computer and push refresh on GMAIL ten times every minute.
You give up and realise you have lost them to a life far more interesting.
Mind you.. It has only been twelve hours. I may be jumping the gun a little.
Hey – Just had a thought…. Rolling of eyes…
The concept of love once made me vomit…
Here’s a graphic for those without good vivid illustrative imaginations……..
This escapee pigeon of the cast iron stomach breeding program clearly shows my vomit at love in all its glory.
Or, oh my giddy aunt (not that she was a town bike, honest)…
AM I LOVE SICK?
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggg. I am giving myself a headache of interstellar variety and magnatude.
By the time this nonsense wears of I hope the effects of sending my latest tattoo photo has similarly worn off. The twenty year old girl whom should just pack her bags and fly around the planet with me is well worth not pissing off.
And, most definitely, well worth not vomiting on.
Being exceedingly clever and well rounded has its drawbacks. Of course, avoiding the temptation to claim every wink as “love” and ending up with a list of names longer than your right arm is one of these. Instead all my tattoo’s are about addiction in a purely binary fashion. You hate, you love. You addict. You hate. Uhm. You work it yourself.
Here I am, as of twelve hours ago. Sent this picture and have not heard back.
Guess I am not going to get her name tattoo’d on me after all. Phew.
What I am thinking is to get DR ED GANE scan and email me his signature for a torso filling tattoo approximately covering the area of liver.
It may just appeal to his sense of irony and humour.
He, having invented some drugs that were tested on my liver, should comply happily. Somewhat sceptically perhaps, but eventually… Happy. May even be a little love, F.O.C?
However, the visualised forthcoming lecture regarding dangers of sterilisation of having tattoo’s done at home would just take the fun out of it. Ed’s enthusiasm for his topics is limitless, boundless and something akin to “mad professor hyper focused ADHDism”…
My tenacity for all things, including really dodgy tattoo work, is equally overpowering.
Now, back to reality… Has my young lady friend emailed back yet?