Post Sixty-Four: Skin As Expression, Skin as Reflection, and Skin as Skin.

This is what happened the last time I was on a weekend vacation.

I had a tooth removed the week before the trip and I got a dry socket...I can't really explain what that is, google it, but it was revolting. I was in a tremendous amount of pain and none of the alcohol that I was consuming at the time was soothing it. So, I did what any spontaneous, partied-up, cartoon loving person would do and found the dodgiest, cheapest tattoo parlour in town to ink me up thus commemorating my little lost dead toothy. Furthermore, I've named him Elvis P. Tootherton (no-one knows what the P stands for).

I'm heading down to Melbourne in mid October to see Mariachi El Bronx with a bunch o' my favourite peeps and I'm thinking about getting a little something something somewhere, just as a souvenir. Maybe a little ghost? Maybe a cowboy? Can somebody draw me something?

I think, more than anything, I like tattoos because they remind me not to take my skin too seriously. Skin schmin! Sure, if I make it to be 50 I'll probably hate that I have a tooth on my wrist and who knows what else...but I could die tomorrow. Also, if I keep sane and my character remains intact, I can use the tattoos to connect with my youth and pass on stories to my cabbage patch kids. I think I'd love that! And what better justification could I have other than the fact that I want my mortician to have a good indication of what sort of person I was in life...postcards from a yesterday for them to imagine...

Mwah! x

P.S. Draw me a tattoo, peoples of the universe!