I’m at that irritating point in life when saving up for a new tattoo seems
like a good idea desirable.
Zoom in on my ribs. Text. Gothic font or typical type. Poetry? Shakespearean sonnets? Epic lyrics? One liners? Something that seems convoluted and hipsteresque, but makes sense to only me? An inside joke that I’ll regret? No. A book title. An ode to someone I love. Ehh… too predictable, too commonplace.
Crossfade onto my back, between my scapulae. A sun! No, better yet – an Alice in Chains sun! Wait, I don’t want to be that old lady paying homage to her adolescent saviors via permanently ragged, faded strokes. A portrait of my dogs. Obv.
Moving along, maybe to the left or right, and let’s focus on one of my shoulders. Okay. Gemini symbol? No, I’m pagan enough with all of my inky symbology. Inappropriately ironic for a neuroscientist. Oh, how about some anatomically correct organic structure, then? No, too cliche, too hipster, and honestly… I already have a brain, why carve one into my skin?
Grr. This is getting frustrating. Pan upwards to my neck and towards my terribly low hairline. Sure… ink beneath a legion of baby hairs could produce cute results. Mayhaps I can squeeze in a fucking caricature of my sister, which would undoubtedly turn out looking like a screwy self-portrait.
Okay. All I know is… this future tatt will be personal.