Is it possible to break your eardrum after doing too much coke and then taking a few Xanax afterward?
I was on my roommate’s Tumblr after he foolishly left his laptop unattended to walk his girlfriend’s dainty little rat dog. Naturally I informed his followers of his affinity for wearing women’s lingerie and his rousing recommendation of the Shake Weight. After tiring of said antics, I started creeping on the girls he followed. What I noticed was all but two of them had the same three words somewhere in their bio, “I have tattoos…”
What the fuck does that even mean? What is that supposed to be saying? Obviously she has tattoos, but what’s behind her mentioning it? Does it mean she’s really cool? That she’s fun and adventurous with an unmistakable wild streak? That she gives it up on the first date?
What she doesn’t realize is most girls from our generation have tattoos now. Saying she has tattoos is like saying she has a smart phone, an iPod, or a DVR. It’s not saying anything. There’s nothing to read into it now that tats have become widespread and acceptable in the mainstream for decades now. Shit, a couple months ago, Mattel released the tattooed Barbie,.
I give her 7½ pussycats.
It’s become the opposite of what it used to represent. No longer is it a way of sticking out as an individual or differentiating yourself from the rest of society. It’s actually becoming a way of joining in. Kids these days can’t wait to get a tattoo. It’s like a rite of passage. It’s like finally having sex or telling your father to suck a dick. They bitch at their parents that everyone else has one. By the time they’re 20 they have a full sleeve.
What’s also funny is when someone discloses they have none and the person with tats—instantly surprised—always asks, “Why not?” It reminds me of that Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets harassed for not wearing the ribbon during the AIDS awareness walk.
I imagine the same thought process going off in the tatted person’s head regarding someone not wanting a tattoo.
I have nothing against tattoos. I have one (tramp stamp, what’s up ladies?) and I don’t want another one. When I tell people I don’t want another one they always think it’s because of the pain. It isn’t—I’ve always viewed pain as a challenge . At my old place if you stood on the metal step cover and touched the light switch you’d get jolts of electricity and I used to be the only person who could bear to keep their hand on it as long as I wanted without giving in. It’s not the pain. It’s just become so oversaturated and cliché that it’s lost its luster. Now it’s like wearing a nice watch. I feel my watch symbolizes the never-ending struggle of good and evil, y’all. I’ve even made a little cash off of tattoos. I’m an illustrator, and as anyone good at drawing knows, the first thing some asshole asks you when they find out you’re good is if you can design a tattoo for them.
So I say to all you young, pure, untainted youths: Be a rebel. Buck the system, stick it to the man, and DON’T get a tattoo. Show you’re not another number, a cog in the machine. Be unique. You are not Tinkerbell dropping acid on top of a mushroom. You are not Winnie the Pooh hitting a bong. You are not a fucking butterfly. For all us other poor saps who are already desecrated there is no chance. But there is still hope…for you.