I Will grow old with my ink, and that's about the long and short of it. People will continue to be freaked out in secret. I have gotten used to that, and I am growing to like the unnecessary attention. You, however, will never appreciate that because you are as indecisive as you are judgmental. I decided to get inked, I will brave the consequences, and I will manage with shining confidence.
I endured hours of needles puncturing my forearm, my wrist, my chest, and that area above the armpit it a bitch. The needles puncture my skin at a rate of 50 to 3,000 times a minute (a sewing machine runs at 750 stitches a minute), and, more importantly, it's not just one kind of needle. We're talking specialized needles that are compressed in threes, fives, nines, and fifteens. And I sat through hours of repeated infliction because that special pain delivers something beautiful and thoroughly personal. I am the kind of person, we are the kind of people that sees past the blood and the puncture wounds and beholds the beauty behind it instead. So you will understand why we are more concerned with Tattoo Maintenance and After Care and points a dirty finger at Public Opinion.
Leave us and our growing collection of tattoos alone. You don't get that kind of untoward attention, you will never understand how that feels like, so you mind your own business.
And having said that, allow me to tell you haters the truth behind growing old with tattoos.
Fuck your insecurity, fuck your like-minded friends and your mob mentality, fuck your self-serving standards of what is acceptable, and, most importantly, fuck your obviously weak brain and its terrifying lack of original opinion. Do something with your limitless time. Masturbate until your palms bleed, and leave us the hell alone. Or as we say it in the third world vernacular,
"Isalsal mo yan, gago."