Having been the recipient of I don’t know how many tattoos — 1, 2, 3, 4, 9 — I have got to dispute the claim I’ve heard uttered so often, that tattoos are somehow “addictive.” That’s a stupid thing to say unless you’ve got hidden masochistic tendencies. Some people do, but they are not as many as you might think. Tattoos, depending on size and intricacy, range from annoying to f***ing painful and there’s nothing addictive about that. What is addictive is the idea of etching one’s life upon the skin. I’ve got some pretty meaningful tattoos and some stupid ones, but each one of them has a story. Each one has a memory. One of them is even a motto of sorts, a tribute to the idea of “the only way out is through” — something I learned from my oldest daughter. She took life hostage, bending what little time she had to her will and enjoying every single nanosecond of it.
I say this as I hit my old man up for another, as well as a few tweaks to my older ones. It’s not the tattoos that are addictive, it’s the life that’s lived around them that’s addictive.
Then of course there are the people who flock to whichever tattoo shop that’s got its own reality show this season to have their kitschy, old-school, nouveau rockabilly-chic sleeves done. Which is fine, too. I ain’t hatin’, I’m just waxing philosophical.
