The day was more than hectic, but I felt pretty good. I'll take hectic feeling pretty good over laid back and not feeling good any day. I'm sitting here with a whiskey and water inside thinking, well, I have nothing I really want to put down on paper, but I'm up for some writing.
Here I sit with a broken heart, took a hand full of pills and my hog won't start.
Yes, yes. I screwed around with the lady's skin tones to get, what I hope is a better image of the tattoo. Rien is setting out to earn a living as a tattoo artist on his island and he seems to be doing well. I'm not from a generation altogether into tattoos, or, at least, not tattoos of the size and visibility of the one above. Now days you see a lot of them.
My reaction is it's art, man; art should be encouraged, but I don't see myself getting quite that decorated unless I should find true love in a tattoo artist with an uncontrollable need to punch ink into her significant other(s). “Could we, you know, start with something not too obvious? It really is necessary for your soul's well being to punch the Sistine Chapel into my back, the Hand of God reaching, shoulder blade to shoulder blade, adams apple to ankles?” I'm not certain how I'd get my head around it.
True love will out.
Well, yes. Then again, how likely true love at my advancing age? True love who finds her bliss in ink and needles?
If you were lucky enough to find her, my friend, you'd never look back.
Truth on a Tuesday. How surprising.