the chelsea hotel oral sex song

lately i've been experiencing a reoccurring dream in which i'm sporting a rather large tattoo just above my chest. try as i might, i can't make out what the actual design of the tattoo is, but it definitely presents something ominous. dreams are a funny thing to me because i claim to never have them. i mean, i'm well-versed in oneirology, rem cycles, and what not, but on a personal level i'm only impacted by dreams every couple of months (if that), so it's only natural that i doubt their actuality.

ah, tattoos. the older i get, the more outnumbered i feel for being "un-inked"...and i'm okay with that. not that i don't appreciate tattoo art as an expressive medium (yeah, sure), however, there is something so alien about it that it leaves me feeling ill as ease (similarly to how i feel when i think about pregnancy, diaphragms, and mayonnaise). i'm sorry but there are certain things that the human body should not be a host to, and in my opinion, this includes a growing human attached to a feeding cord, rubber domes that rest in your vagina to "catch" sperm, whipped oil/egg combos that not only feed upon your arteries but also ruin a good sandwich, and last but not least, injected pigment into one's epidermis.

i think back to the tattooed guys that i've dated and the majority are now in their mid-twenties and left with icons of shitty bands that they liked (or played in) as teenagers or memories of ex-girlfriends which whom they broke up with once they went clinically insane. very few have something that they are still proud to don. but whatever, now i'm just being an asshole. everyone is entitled to self-expression and who am i to judge? i know i had a point to this when i started writing, but it currently escapes me. oh well.

in other news, i broke down and got a twitter account. can't be left behind in the digital dust.