Sometimes, when scrolling through page after page of interesting pictures of very strange persons wearing black ink and piercings, and generally looking looking rather amazing, I wonder to myself whether I would be a more interesting person with a tattoo.
I suppose it's not much different from looking at a fashion magazine and the rock hard abs and telling yourself that you really need to get to the gym, but don't we all really do it whenever we look at whatever it is we think is worth looking at? Don't we all just compare ourselves again and again to that pristine photograph and wonder how we could become more like this person that is obviously so desirable an interesting.
I mean, I don't have the abs, and I have never been able to keep my mind made up long enough for it to make sense that I might engrave something on my flesh, but I can't help but wonder. Is it some engrained desire to flaunt our peacock feathers and impress? Probably.
But then I thought for a moment. I thought about the rainbow of skinny jeans that I have in my closet, as well as the suspenders, bow ties, blazers, button downs and converse that form the diverse pallet from which I paint my expressive wardrobe. I thought about my writing and the project I have worked on, acting, dancing, learning languages and music. I though about the cold calculated side that can make the hard choices; the side that, in conversation, can be so level, logical and fiercely unforgiving that I rarely loose and argument.
I thought about the unfettered and unfiltered ridiculous me, that puts boxes on my head at least once a week and can say the thing erupts a room in laughter as easily as grinding it to a perfect awkward halt.
I thought about me;the good and the bad, the whole dichotomous me, and how much I liked that person. That person is already more than interesting enough for me.
