Wow Mom, guess what I did last night? I got faded, x-rated and tried to fight some guy at McGregor's Pub. I took off my jacket; in that moment I was the star quarterback 'roid ragin' it; I was the angry hippo who doesn't take kindly to strangers in his neck of the river, I was, to the best of my ability, everything I've ever hated in other creatures, mostly of the men varietal. This arrogant (bald) fuck with 4 sticker sized tattoos had the audacity, after I've gone through a sixer of Bud Lites (yea bro I'm core) to tell me that in his family "you're not really tattooed if your elbow isn't done". Oh yea? Is that right? Here I was thinking that the most painful tattoos, therefore the one that mean the most cuz they're badge of honor-y, I have weren't the ones on my arms, but the ones on my fingers and stomach. Oh wait, guess he wouldn't know about that since he only has four and they were all on his arms, oh, and btb mother fucker, my elbow IS tattooed. In retrospect, it's less than illuminating as to why I took my jacket off, unless it was so it wouldn't rip when I downed a can of spinach, got huge biceps and socked his ratty teeth down his throat. I suppose what angered me then, and angers me now, is the notion that tattoos are some sort of game or sport, a thing to be collected, a hobby, if I may? Thank you. I suppose they can be whatever they need to be for other people. Sure you can plaster your skin with someone else's artistic vision and not let it touch you; you can gather generic flash all over your body, something drawn by someone you never met, who's work you're condoning by stabbing it 5 layers deep, although they could be a rapist, racist or a rampant racist rapist. Or you could appreciate the time and energy that your chosen artist is exerting, the gift of their expertise that you must pay dearly for because that tattoo you're getting, unlike a fad, will have to be a lifelong love. Even if you do get it lazered out in a series of no less than three consecutive sets of pique, the faint semblance of your mistake will still shadow your steps, or arm movements. I'll draw my speech to a close with this final blast from my mobile pulpit; I am the art that is on my skin. Those designs were drawn for me, all but three done by a man I treasure who knows my heart and mind like they were his own. My life's essence and most cherished memories are held within those streaks of color, as cheese as that may sound to some, and if you ask me to define each piece I may not be able to fully verbalize it's worth because speaking is not my strong suit, trust me. If we get in a verbal scrap, you'll win, I promise. I couldn't out talk a toddler, my voice starts to shake, as do my hands, and I forget most of the things I know, including english. Stress-induced. Few things anger me, but glib snobbery gets me everytime. So don't bring that bad juju around me, or I'll be forced to remove my jacket.