Ink

I’ve got myself some ink. That’s the “cool” term for it (I’m working on being cooler). Most people know them as tattoos. They’re freaking rad, too. You’d be very impressed. I started the addiction when I was 19. People (by people, I mean family members concerned with my eternal salvation), when they found out, asked me why. I forget my initial answers, I can assure you they were super lame, but I know why now. They put you in a social class, that class being socailly rebellious. Which is the ultimate cool. Don’t get me wrong, they mean a lot to me. I haven’t got barbed wire wrapping my arm. Of course, that would leave me with the wrong image. Rather than being socially rebellious I’d be socially retarded, very uncool. (Note: Those of you of my slight readership that have barbed wire tattoos, I didn’t mean you. You’re very rad. I was really talking about those tribal tattoos. Those guys are screwed up.)
There you go, all you need to know about me. I’m an insulting jerk with randomly adorning tattoos.