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If you have been keeping up with this blog regularly (well, until I became a huge butthead and stopped updating it) then you know that I have wanted a tattoo for quite some time now. I find tattoos to be extremely interesting when they have significance and meaning and I have been carrying around my tattoo design (“mad props” go to my grandfather for creating it) for about 8 months now while patiently waiting for the scale to finally get to my magic number. 

This number (it’s greater than 100 but less than 200 so hopefully that quells your all-consuming curiosity about how much I weigh) was the reason I went to the gym regularly and subsisted on a diet of fruits, protein, vegetable purees and even less delicious “edible” ingredients Monday through Thursday of every single effing week.  Actually, I realize I just said that in past tense.  I am still eating healthy shit and going to the gym (although not as regularly) because I don’t want to be that person who reaches their weight goal and then goes on an epic thee-day binge only to be found dead a week later due to a piece of cake lodged in their throat.  Yup, that definitely won’t be me…unless it was red velvet cake…with vanilla frosting…and sprinkles.  Must. Not. Drool. On. Desk.

Anyway, a year ago my dad promised me that if I reached my number, my parents would finance my tattoo.  My mom was, understandably, troubled by this development because she does not believe that getting pictures or words etched permanently in one’s skin is a productive use of one’s time.  Weird, right?  However, she was consoled by the fact that I had 25 pounds standing in the way of me and my ink and it would take me a while to reach it…if I even succeeded.

Well two weeks ago, I finally did.  The euphoria quickly faded when I realized that while I could get my tattoo, I’d have to sit through the process of actually getting it done.

Now, I am hardly a badass.  I almost passed out when I got my nose pierced in college and I don’t handle needles well.  Not to mention, the internet is rife with assholes who try to scare the shit out you with their own tattoo experiences. Case in point, “It hurtz lik a bitch.  The wrist is the worst!  The pain is exkrusiating…blah, blah, blah.”  Did I mention I was planning to get a wrist tattoo? Perhaps I should have refrained from reading these eloquent reviews but I couldn’t help it.  I needed to be educated so I could prepare myself for the “intensze stabbing pain that makes u want to dye.” For the record, I did not pass out…well I almost did but then my tattoo artist told me to stop breathing like that because “you’re not having a baby!”  Bedside manner was clearly not her greatest attribute, although to be fair, she let Eric (the bf) sit beside me even though technically no one was allowed to go beyond the front desk if they weren’t planning to be mutilated in some way.

Now I will proceed to explain what a tattoo feels like for a huge pussy, who is deathly afraid of needles but gets them shoved into various parts of her body anyway.  The first line is the scariest because you expect that you are about to feel intense pain.  In the poignant words of Dwight Shrute, “FALSE.”  The first thing I said after the tattoo pen thingie (the technical term for it, obviously) touched my skin is “people on the internet are assholes” and you can quote me on that.  Does it tickle?  No.  But it definitely isn’t excruciating.  I might have made some interesting faces but it really wasn’t that bad.  It feels like someone is scratching a sunburn on your skin.  The whole process lasted about ten minutes and I was left with an amazing tattoo that I worked hard for.

…also, the look on my mom’s face when I came home proudly waving my body art was priceless.  TOTALLY WORTH IT.

"Dream" in Russian with a quill at the top