because "life is certain, death is not."

There are, I think exactly three valid reasons to get a tattoo.

1) as a cultural thing, it's to identify yourself with a particular social group and the tattooing process itself is seen as a spiritual journey or coming of age thing.

Or it's to express your so-called "individuality."

2) when it really means something to you, like if it stands for a particular cause, memory or ideology. Like, if you tattoo in your dead cat's name so as not to forget it, or when you tattoo in a kodigo on your left wrist for a big-ass Physics test on Moday.

3) when you actually need to put a tattoo in there, to divert attention from skin abnormalities or the lack of facial hair. My Mom, for example, got her eyebrows tattooed on because she has none. And it hurt like shit, and she looked like she was surprised all the time for a couple of weeks, but all in all, it was a good investment.

There are a disproportionate amount of reasons NOT to get a tattoo.

Like, generally, people with tattoos all over their bodies live less than an average human because their skin can't breathe. Also, a fraction of the people who get tattoos generally regret having tattoos done. (Harris Poll, 2003.)

Or, like, there's a health risk when the needles used on you are, so sayeth my mother, infected with HIV. Or when the dude who's inking you is stoned or drunk.

Or when you asked for a cross design in between your shoulder blades, and you wanted it teensy small, but the tattoo shop dudes vetoed your idea and said flowers would be a better choice instead.

Or when you say, "sure, flowers are fine, but make it small, okay?" And then you end up with an eight-inch wide, four-inch thick foliage of orchids snaking up between your shoulder blades.

Or when they offer you some rhum before you get your tats done, "for courage", but really, alcohol increases your blood flow and makes you more prone to excessive bleeding during the process.

Or when you didn't wince at the pain so much as wince at the gargantuan size of the thing, and when you look at it on the mirror, you can't decide if it's cool or scary, and you sort of wonder whether you'll be able to wear a low-cut dress with your hair tied up ever again and not have people look at your flower. And you contemplate how long you have to grow your hair so it can cover it.

Or when you think back on the moment and asked why you agreed (and you did agree) to the flowers in the first place, when you'd decided quite adamantly that it should mean something to you, and that it should at least be symbolic, not just some random mark on you to make it easy for your family to identify your body if and when your head gets severed and separated from your torso.

So then you're stuck with (and you're just pushing it), some symbolic vaginas on your back. (watch that movie with Renee Zellwegger and Chris O' Donnell.)

Or you can't decide if it makes you look like you came from prison.

Or when you try to imagine your grandkids when you're old and wrinkly and they look at your tattoo and say, "Grandma, why do you have some wilted flowers on your back?"

Or when you had to sit on a plastic chair for the better part of two hours, numbing out the pain because of your excellent pain threshold, but wincing every now and then, both at the drilling of your epidermis, and the wierd pseudo-Biblical paintings on the walls that had a desert scene on it, a horse that looked like it was either drunk, suffocating, or about to vomit; a bearded good Samaritan, sitting on a rock, wearing a miniskirt and red high-heeled boots, and some Bible figures arranged around some orange cacti.

And then you have indelible proof that pot sessions must have occurred on a regular basis in that room.

Or when you pay a huge amount for it (na discounted naman na daw kasi binilhan ng friend mo yung mga tattoo guys ng snacks [chips and root beer] which became pulutan and chaser respectively, during a tagay session they held while your were getting inked and after, and far far into the night. With a crazy sequel I won't kwento nalang here.)

And you know in your heart of hearts that it wasn't money well spent because it didn't help society at all.

Or when people ask to see it and they say it's "bad-ass" with a mixture of awe and "what the fuck did you do to yourself?"

Or when you're restricted from certain body movements because the skin feels raw, and it hurts like a bitch now every time your rub lotion on it, and people ask you if you grew up in a military family because you always sit with your back superstraight.

Or when you don't know how to break it to your parents and your brother, and your friends because for now it's your irresponsible, dirty, little (big, really) secret. And you don't want to tell anybody personally yet, and so you're stuck with a slight pain in your back that you can't talk about.

That's about fifteen or so reasons not to get a tattoo.

Unfortunately, you lacked the foresight to see all this before, as you were in the car that drove you to the place, or as you were sitting on those little vinyl couches, pawing through their collection of heavy metal magazines.

And so you end up with a floral arrangement permanently etched on your body, which meets none of the valid criteria I laid out at the beginning of this rant.

Well, okay, it does. It stands for a particular memory.

It's a testament to that one fun, shitty, irresponsible, shamefully liberal, and semi-traumatic day of your life.

pictures to come when I'm in the clear.