When I was 15, I decided I wanted to get a tattoo.
A butterfly. On my left lower hip bone.
No reputable tattoo parlor would tattoo a 15 year old girl without parental permission. Or pierce my private parts.
Thank God for ice cubes, apple slices, lighters and safety pins.
But I never let things go. Ever.
I was getting that damn tattoo, so I asked around until I found a really scary looking guy who agreed to do it for me at his house for $75.
Which seemed like a totally awesome idea.
I mean, what could go wrong?
A 50 year old man with gray hair down to his waist, a gigantic python tank in the kitchen, and a coffin shaped coffee table in his living room?
This guy is clearly not at all a serial killer.
My best friend Jordan held my hand as I laid on his dining room table.
It hurt so bad, and that fucking snake stared at me the whole time. Probably because it planned to eat my body after this guy raped and chopped me up.
I am such a good decision maker.
I hid that tattoo from my father for 2 years, until one day I was careless adjusting my bikini bottom.
I was taken to the plastic surgeon the next day to get it removed.
Back then, they didn’t laser them off, they just cut them out.
It was the worst surgery I ever had, next to getting my wisdom teeth out, and the only reason that trumps the tattoo removal is because the anesthesia made me vomit for 14 hours straight. And, you can’t vomit when your face is numb.
You re-eat, like, half of it.
The doctor who did my tattoo removal was a family friend. And, by family friend, I mean, he did three of the four of my Great Uncle Frank’s face lifts.
My Great Uncle Frank’s face looks like Heidi Montag, but behind his ears, where they keep hiding his oldness, looks like a retired porn star’s vagina.
My parents also appear to have questionable decision making skills.
It took 6 months for that hole in my pelvic bone to heal, and if you look at the scar under my panties hard enough, it still looks like a butterfly, if you like, put a crayon in Stephen Hawking’s mouth and asked him to draw one.
Even so, still totally a butterfly. I win.
Our second year of college, I got this really awesome idea about Andy and I getting matching tattoos.
Because, like my elementary school principal, Sister Mary Beth (aka Sister Mary Death) told my parents, I never learn.
Plus, Andy had never gotten a tattoo before, and there is nothing I love more than seeing people in pain because of my actions.
Sigh. Boys with ink are soooo sexy.
As long as it’s not a Looney Toons Character. Or lyrics from a Jesse McCarthy song. Or anything, that in any way, makes your belly button look like something’s butt hole.
I have now decided, because it’s almost Valentine’s Day, I am going to get something of relevance tattooed on my wedding ring finger to show Andy how awesome of a wife I am.
Marriage pissing match? Owned.
Pam and Tommy did it, and even though they are technically divorced, they still totally bone. They are in it for life, and while some say it’s because they both have Hepatitis C, I am sure it’s because of the tattooed wedding rings.
So, I am now debating what to get on my finger. I wanted to get Drew because it looks pretty in cursive and when Andy and I first started dating, I tried to get him to start using that half of his real name, but he wouldn’t have it.
How romantic does Brittany and Drew sound?!
He is obviously selfish and refuses to look at the bigger picture.