Today, I thought I would go for something a little different than my usual lists and simply write until I'm satisfied.
The tattoo on my right ankle - what a great 'thing' to write about.
It was leading up to Christmas Eve and I had always thought of getting ink on my skin. I'd practised with notes from class (pen to paper is overrated I say), and thought 'damn this mess of an arm looks pretty damn fly!'. It actually didn't look fly and often resulted in a furious soap scrub before work. Lets just say that a red raw arm is not a great look when you're handing over chocolate brownie to thin girls from Auckland who ooze perfection. But anyway, this tattoo... So it was leading up to Christmas and after a day sitting in the sun I thought 'right, time for a tattoo'. I took myself to the tattoo parlour with a friend in tow and booked an appointment, gave them a vague idea of what I wanted and the next day I had a permanent forget-me-not chain on my ankle. How. Original. The number of girls with flowers, butterflies, Asian symbols, and the dreaded 'live laugh love' inked onto their skin is outstanding.
It seems that most people I meet with a tattoo have a story behind it. They have created their own unique masterpiece which explains to both themselves and others why they chose that particular design and that particular body part. I am never surprised when people ask me what my tattoo means. I have crafted a series of replies which explain the origins of my tattoo. "It is a weed. Nobody likes weeds. They infect everything, twisting and turning, ruining everything beautiful. I wanted that on my perfect leg" "Nobody has flower tattoos, I wanted to be original" "It was either this or FTW on my forehead" These are all obviously dripping with sarcasm. The few who get it politely smile, and the others say things like "Ha. Good" - ahh the English language at its finest! The truth is my tattoo means nothing. I found it on Google images, liked the look of it and went with it. There are not many people who like it. I can tell. They either ask me about it and then quickly change the subject, or blatantly tell me that it is no good. But you know what, my leg, my choice, my pleasure. I love my tattoo. It doesn't remind me of anything, it doesn't have a story, it just has me.
Will I ever get another tattoo? Maybe. In Thailand I was adamant that I was going to come home covered head to toe in cheap tattoos. But after a stern word from all members of the family (who are used to my spontaneous life decisions) I came home with no more than the small one on my ankle. Oh, that and a parasite in my stomach which meant I was sick for a month afterwards. Lets just say that some things happened during that time which I am not proud of. Bless long showers and clean underwear.
I got my nose pierced once. I was walking through town with two friends after a large night out and thought that right then and there would be a fantastic time to get a needle straight through my shnoz. I remember walking into the store wearing techno-coloured clothes, sporting remains of bright orange paint from the night before, and demanding a nose piercing right then and there. The shop assistant looked so shocked that I was torn whether she was appalled by my outfit choice, paint on my skin, or my obviously husky voice which to strangers sounds like I have smoked a packet of cigarettes everyday since I was five. I got my nose pierced five minutes later and it lasted all of two months. After many infections and 'bogan' comments from people my affair with the stud was over.
Looking back on photos I am not drawn to the nose stud any more, more to the amount of make-up I used to paint myself with. I don't know why nobody told me that orange was not cool, blusher was a sometimes drug, and eye-liner gave me an impression of a baby panda VS Snookie. Luckily, thanks to the helpful make-up artists who have wiped my face clean and sold me the correct make-up, I no longer look like somebody who needs a chisel to take off their face. However, at the moment I do have a split in my lip and a scratch below my eye, so admittedly the make-up has been 'caked' on in order to avoid awkward jokes about my facial misfortunes.
I remember at work a few years back I was waiting on a table. It was a family and the father was a loud obnoxious man. The first thing people usually say when greeted by their waitress is a simple "hello" but this man thought he would mix it up and instead ask me why my voice sounded so strange. Until then I wasn't aware that I had an odd voice. I had gone through life thinking that an occasional crackle was part of life. I knew that I didn't have the silky smooth baby voice like so many of my friends, but I never thought it was a bad thing. I remember blushing the deepest shade of pink (which they couldn't see due to my cake face) and stammering "uhhh this is my voice" - obviously my wit hadn't kicked in then as nowadays I have perfect replies to these very statements which have become more regular over the past few years. His family were embarrassed for me, and showed this by laughing merrily and spent the night doing impressions of my husky voice. Needless to say it started a complex which lasted for a few weeks until I thought "can't be changing this. Time to embrace it? Yeah girl". So now, I am a full time husk and I'm proud of the fact that sometimes I sound like a 40 year old smoker or a pre-pubescent boy.
Ramble out.
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