{Since I wrote such a wholesome post over at Sarcastic Mom, I figured I should definitely follow it up with something equally maternal and pure. Go, read over there, then come back and vote. Please.}
I’ve got….1, 2, 3, 4, 5 tattoos. Six technically, since one is a cover-up.
There’s some Hebrew, some Latin, a T with some ivy, a maple leaf (that I really dislike) and the Z. All kind of strategically arranged so as not to be too overwhelmingly obvious. And now, I’m about to break that practice.
But see, while I know what I’m getting, I don’t really know where to put it. But I know I want bolder and romantic-y, with the kind of script you’d find in an 18th century love letter, flowy and curvaceous. A classy in-your-face mostly concealed tattoo.
You know me, right?
You know I’ve been on and off a, um, diet for, oh, about 21 years? You about know my (previous) proclivity for finding self esteem in someone else’s lap. You can blame daddy issues, if it makes it easier for you to digest, whatevs – I just kind of think of it as who I’ve been, so I accept it.
Enter this song:
And these lyrics: cater to the hollow // screaming feed me here // fill me up again // temporarily pacify this hungering
Now you’ve got my next inking.
But where should it go? That’s a lot of fucking words, man. Right?
How about you decide? (Yes, I know how silly it sounds that I’m letting you all vote. But seriously, I’m fine with either option and look to others for approval. Heh.)
Using these [nsfw] ladies as inspiration, there is the choice of a) wrapping around my hips, a la very low hipster jeans, or b) up a side of ribs (and maybe the other).
The canvasses:
There you have it America (and you other non-Americans. And the one masquerading as a Canadian even though she’s got wood for Denver. And hey, Europe. How’s it going? Did you lose weight? Australia – fine shoes you’d got there.). Now please place your votes – and don’t worry, if you haven’t punched through the card all the way, your next eight years will not be completely fucked.
