If I wanted to get technical, I’d specify in great, gory detail how the tattooing process is essentially a physical trauma by nature. A needle piercing delicate flesh thousands upon thousands of times, literally pounding foreign ink into an unknowing body for what could be hours on end? That's trauma. It's why so many pass out or vomit (or both) after spending some amount of time in the chair. And after all that self-induced trauma, you come out the other end scarred with this masterpiece, minimal or grand, and re-brand it artful body modification for the world to admire. It is what it is and if you're not willing to go through that kind of pain, you just don't want it enough.
Back in high school, this kid Knoxin (who was later nicknamed Toxin), he was the premiere drug dealer in the south suburbs of Chicago. He left the heroin and cocaine deals to the big guys, though. His philosophy was if it was illegally made in a lab, he wouldn't sell it. "I'm not tryna kill nobody, man," he would say. "Just givin' people a chill time." What he meant by this was that he stuck to weed and pills like Adderall, Xanax, and OxyContin: legal in some states and legal for some people.
I top off my perfume bottles with
It’s strange and frustrating and intimate, being an hour late but the first to arrive. Anyone that knows me knows I’m a stickler for punctuality but for social engagements, I generally make an exception. Something about walking in alone and having no one waiting on the inside with the rest of the world enjoying the company of their friends and family makes me uncomfortable. So for Emily’s birthday, I thought arriving an hour late would suffice. I even waited in the parking lot for twenty minutes, considering who might already be there. Walking into the bar, I fell in love with it a little bit.
It’s something we’ve talked about in passing; noticing and embracing signs from the universe. The both of us have our own little tokens we look for and welcome to reassure us, to ground us again when our circumstances gravitate back to chaos and catastrophe. And the company we keep, shared or otherwise, largely dismisses these romantic sentiments as amusing delusions that shouldn’t warrant any kind of faithful investments; they’re simply silly superstitions that are nice enough for child’s play but have no place in any sensible adult’s regular affairs. That’s probably why I haven’t confessed to you exactly how much faith I have in these metaphysical forces. I’m just tired of being mocked, tired of the implied pats on the head because clearly I’m detrimentally naive and I’m in for a rude awakening when this cruel world finally teaches me that magic is really just a made-up fairy tale.