A vision in ink: Why I will never be able to get a tattoo

Tattoos are supposed to say something about your personality. Whether you’re a middle-aged mom with some flower tats (perhaps a dahlia to spice things up) placed ever-so-subtly on your lower calf or someone who wears Ray-Bans, a fedora and sleeves of color on your arms, you are telling others about yourself through your image of ink.

I suppose I could be someone who needs everyone to know how seriously I take music by getting a G clef tat or notes running across my shoulders for their dear life, getting squashed every time I lie down. (Then I could interject some horrendously bad line, like “Laying dohs notes down to rest,” before going to sleep every night.)

Although they may not admit it, everyone about to get a tattoo places their inky idea on an internal meter of coolness (a coolometer, in fact). They try to figure out where their potential tattoo will land in the public’s trendmosphere (yep, I just said that). Their tat must appeal to a broader audience than just themselves.

The following are a few thought processes many, I’m sure, go through when deciding on what they’ll cover their skin with, besides clothing or body wash.

Middle-aged women who choose BA flowers:

“Tattoos are pretty neat. I should get one of a daisy because I love daisies, and my son picked me a bouquet of daisies when he was four years old. It would be super cute.”

People who love death and whose favorite colors are soul black, blood red, ghoulish purple and neon, toxic green:

“This bad thing happened to me one time, and it made me mad, so time for skulls. I love skulls. They’re dark and remind me of death, just like my heavy metal band. I want to show people I’m not happy, and that there’s a side to me they never realized was there.”

Quirky weirdos who just want to be as weird as they possibly can to get attention:

“If I get a tattoo of a seal clapping its hands while standing on an armchair and wearing glasses and an ascot, will that be off-the-wall enough to be cool? No one will have a tattoo like miiiiiiine…”

Those who are devastated often and enjoy sharing sad quotes:

“He trampled on my heart and tore it to pieces. I want him to realize how hurt I am by permanently displaying my heartbreak. I think I’ll write ‘All you ever did was make me cry. Maybe one day you will realize that you had a good girl in your life’ on my shoulder. Then I’ll post a picture of it on Facebook. I hope he sees it and realizes what a horrible person he is.”

The not-so-loyal-yet-ready-to-pretend-they-are-because-they’re-too-stupid-to-realize-they-aren’t type:

“Since my girlfriend has trust issues, I’ll tattoo her name on my bicep. Tats are forever, which is a great comparison, thing of our relationship, right now, anyway.”

My own issues:

I’ve thought about getting a small tattoo on a region of  my body that is only seen when I’m walking in grass barefoot, aka, my foot or ankle.

I’ve considered the following options:

1. A Triforce tattoo that has pretty leaves surrounding it. Not only will it be a shout out to all the Zelda nerds I know, it will also have a double meaning (ooooh!) by standing for the Trinity, as well, relating to my faith. Furthermore, it will make it seem less cultish to my mom.

2. A tattoo of my last name, Feir, with pretty leaves as part of the script (there’s a theme going. I like nature).

As I analyzed these ideas further, I noticed a few problems. How could I look a fellow Zelda fan in the eye when asked if I’ve played every, single Zelda game, from NES to Wii, when I’ve only played a handful of them and have only completely finished The Wind Waker (because it was the easiest Zelda game ever made)? For shame, for shame.

There weren’t really any issues with my name, besides the fact that I get sick of certain things quickly, including room arrangements, short hair, sunflower seeds, obnoxious people (including myself) and Facebook profile pictures. In other words, tattoos would probably get annoying, as well.

All in all, I think it’s better that I not be a vision in ink.

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