That moment when you get a shit tattoo

So I got a tattoo recently. Its shit…

How do I feel?  Well, you see, that’s a complicated one. I know, on a logical level, that it’s not so shit that people would look at it and think “Oh fuck, you poor unfortunate soul “(in the style of Ursula from The Little Mermaid in case that wasn’t immediately obvious). But it is bad enough that I will have to do something about it. Which upsets me just a tad because I am super vain and I spent a lot of time thinking about what this tattoo would be. As a feminist, it felt important to me to showcase that proudly to the world – which is why I got one of the most empowering symbols of femininity out there, the Vesica Piscis. But I’ll leave it to the more articulate robots on google to explain the intricacies of this symbol.

Back to the point – I was excited, and to have that excitement turn sour like the milk your about to pour on those coco pops you’ve been craving since last night is I imagine how Aurora must have felt when she pricked her finger on the spinning wheel and fell into a deep sleep. On the plus side, this bad tattoo won’t make me fall asleep for ages, but on the negative side a kiss from my true love won’t fix it either. So to put this convoluted mix of metaphors and similes to bed – I’m not best pleased.

But I’ve always been quite good at not thinking too much about bad stuff, so there is that. I reckon if I just get someone who actually knows their shit when marking another human beings skin for life to make the lines a little thicker, that it might turn out okay, but still – not ideal eh?

Anyway, I’m just going to take a leaf out of Sinatra’s book and keep on singing (not to be confused with Dory's famous mantra)... That's Life.