Ink or not to Ink? That is the Question

I am not scared of pain.  I could give a shit if I howl or cry or bite on a towel while writhing in agony.

I worry about it looking "icky".

My inside wrist longs for a Mike Weaver *V*.  Small, simple.  A tribute to my first son, second child.

But......all I can think of is Dixie Foster.  Dixie was a parent of one of my 4th grade students back in the 1980s.

During a parent/teacher conference, Dixie explained how she had scratched her name into her knuckle--D-I-X-I-E with a protractor in math class.  Then she went to an art room and poured a bottle of India ink all over the open wounds.  Immediately, Dixie had her own permanent tattoo. (No, I don't know why people tell me things like this.  They just do.  People are magnetically drawn to me to tell me weird things. AND I am programmed to listen and remember.)

It was a scary, jagged mixture of pure mean and artful stupidity.  It looked like white trash come to town.  The ink had bled randomly into the surrounding skin.

I like tattoos that are fine-lined and precise.  I love the stories behind body art.  I like seeing a random star on a stranger's ear lobe--there's a story there.  I ask.  I do.  And people tell me the "whys" behind their pictures.  They tell me with the wild abandon of someone who will never see me again.  I don't judge.  I just listen.

My *V* would be a reminder to the world that I am missing someone on a daily basis.  Visible, small, discrete-- my act of love.

Bill told me he'd get me some Sharpie markers and I could tattoo myself all I wanted in a non-permanent manner.

I'd probably draw a mustache on my finger and go around holding my finger under my nose.