Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Getting my Tattoo Re-Inked

One spring day last year, I had the great idea of having my tattoo re-inked because it was about 7-years old and rather faded (why this bothered me I can't say because even in a bikini no one can see it).

One should never, ever get a tattoo done or re-inked spur of the moment!

I spent the whole night waking up stuck to my sheets. "Tony" kept me in the chair for 2 hours when it ought to only have
taken about 20 minutes (it's only about the size of a silver dollar!). The most apt description I can offer is that he "drilled the f*ck out of me", expletive, expletive! I think he might have just just liked working on me with my underwear pulled to the side and his forearm resting on my chest.

He showed me his 40-year old tattoo, that he woke up with in Mexico when he was in the Marines, on which only the figure's pink eye-shadow has faded (this part also involved him serenading the room with a Jimmy Buffet song as Prodigy blasted in the background; unfortunately his tattoo of a "Mexican cutie" was not anywhere he could have made it "dance" for me like you see sailors do in old movies) and telling me how he teaches doctors at the Cleveland Clinic to approximate the appearance of nipples on mastectomy patients using an ink gun (that he managed both with buzzing ink gun in hand leads me to suspect some ADHD issues or meth usage) when his 20-year old son pops in, announces that he's going to the strip club and then proceeds to kneel next to me and start hitting on me (FYI - he's learning the trade from dad and really wants to do my "next" tattoo).

Quite the slice of Americana out there at Finest Lines in Wickliffe, Ohio... yes, indeed. And that night, I stepped off the curb and splashed around in it for a little while before I sped off home in my Jetta 1.8 Turbo to my charming not-as-crazy neighborhood in the city.


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