Oh hey, hi. I got a new tattoo.

It’s been a minute since I’ve checked in. Such is life. It’s probably about time for a life update.

So last I left you I had visited the fam up north where I was tortured, branded and sent home crying. That sounds about right, yes.

Fast forward, there was a cool new job with more money and a bigger desk, (woo hoo) then the holidays where I got a little fatter and then it snowed alot and and blah, blah, blah.

Let’s talk about what happened when I decided to get brave and finish my big dramatic divorce cover up tattoo.

Yes. Divorce tattoo.

No. I’m still married. I meant the big D from 2013. Yeah. That one. The last remnant of a marriage I wanted to blur from memory.

I started it a couple years back. Taking what was probably 6 inches wide by 4 inches deep and covering that sucker with a 1/2 back and down the crack dragon. Yeah buddy. It was an epic plan. It was going to be glorious. I got the outline done. I got a wing done. I got the face started.

Then I quit like a loser.

Do you have any idea how much that hurts? I’m having flash backs thinking about it.

So I went on, unfinished tattoo like an abandoned coloring book page.

Season after season.

Swimsuits be damned, I didn’t finish it. Until now.

Yeah. It’s done. It’s all finished in all it’s dragon glory. I am proud of it too. Hours of sitting, some smudged mascara and many dollars later, it is done. No sign of the original tattoo.

The first “back to it” sitting was 3 hours long. I was terrified. I dont know if the artist could tell but I wanted to have an outer body experience right then and there. First touch of the needle and I almost went over the seat.

I nearly fainted. Nearly. I was only stopped by the real fear that if I did indeed lose conciousness that I would also likely lose my bladder. Nobody wants to pee themselves after passing out from pain inflicted by someone you requested to hurt you in exchange for money.

The second sitting was another 3 hours. The last of it would be finished. I chanted in my head that I was brave and strong. I was like the dragon. Also that I was going to look awfully stupid going another few years with a half finished tattoo. Mostly that.

Vanity is basically bravery.

I straddled the chair and gripped the back. Eyes closed, teeth clenched. I heard the machine come on and there it went. It being my bravery. Each scratch feeling more and more like demons trying to claw their way to my front belly via my spine.

Ever had a single tiny cat scratch? It effing hurts, right? This felt like a cat on crack brought it’s entire family tree to lay into my skin.

As we neared the “end” the artist had to throw on some finishing touches, little wispy swirls that look awesome but felt like a near death experience.

I’ve never been so happy as when those last 3 hours came to an end. I stood carefully, not knowing if my shaking legs would hold me. I slipped off the chair and took a deep breath. I stretched my arms and fingers to let the blood back into my limbs.

Relief washed over me.

Then I looked down at the chair.

I had sweated pure desperate fear and anquish all over the seat. 3 long hours of torture in a pool shaped like butt cheeks. There was a literal ass print of perspiration.

To be honest it really was a good representation of the original tattoo and memory I had intended to cover. But still. Ass shaped pool of my sweat.

I apologized, smeared it around with my hand and went quickly for my wallet. It was time to pay, tip handsomely and never, ever look back.

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