(no subject)
my twin sister and i decided to get inked before she left for overseas. Tattooing was something i've always wanted to experience no doubt owing to my personal (and somewhat cliched) aphorism that we "only live once" ( so, therefore- why not do as many stupid things you can before you cark it?) . Or, perhaps it was the simply the allure of rebellion and recklessness often synchronous with the action of getting inked. regardless of my motivations, the whole affair (aside from the actual inking itself) was quite ordinary. i had to make appointments, collaborate with a friend who designed the actual artwork, get knocked back from several parlours who couldnt fit my sister and i in, artists who wouldn't physically do the tattoo because they thought it was too intricate yadda yadda. thus becoming Hardly a spontaneous and audacious pursuit. i must say i was rather disenchanted (albeit apprehensive) with the whole affair by the time i shambled through the cross to a joint called "sleevemasters". Furthermore, to my um...delight...i discovered my artist would be a dishevelled American bikie named 'dave'. (Prior to arriving, my sister declared that she wanted shotgun- because our whole lives i've always been the first to do things) Alas, i had to watch her along with that stomach-in-throat-heart-drumming-in-ears-clammy-skin sensation known as fear.
but its beautiful...
mood:
content