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The Girl With the Drunken Tattoo

Updated on July 24, 2015

In all its glory.

Yeah, some things are F-O-R-E-V-E-R.
Yeah, some things are F-O-R-E-V-E-R.

My Teenage Decision-Making Abilities Were Legendary

It’s unavoidable: We all know at least one person (or in my case, handfuls of them) who, at some point in their lives received their first tattoo, and from that moment-forward, they were hooked. They just keep going back. Some are well-done; others are. . .not. Either way, their body is now their canvas.

I often giggle to myself at the thought of my husband living in a nursing home (because we accepted long ago that he’s just one of those people who is so cantankerous, he’s going to live to be at least 120 years old). He’ll be known to the staff as “the man with the Snoopy tattoo”. Hey, it could be worse! Had he not had that pesky appendicitis back in 2000, he would be known as “that guy with the belly button ring”, but I digress.

All of that said, hey, it’s your life, your body. Do what makes you happy. In fact, I actually have a tattoo of my own. Technically, I guess I have two. The first I received from a friend in high school. She was giving herself an old-school tattoo on the outside of her ankle using Indian ink, a needle and thread, and she gave me two teeny-tiny dots on my left hand. Silly, stupid, and largely inconsequential. The other tattoo, however, is a whole different story. One that perfectly illustrates just how reckless and utterly ridiculous my behavior as a teenager was.

Teenagers should not be allowed to congregate in groups made up of more than 3 people outside of school. I was either 16 or 17 years old. The exact details of the night are rather hazy, but a few key points really stick-out. The first thing I recall is that there was a LOT of drinking. I believe that Yukon Jack was my drink of choice at that particular stage in life. Undoubtedly, there was also rum, and in all-likelihood, a lot of tequila. Shots all-around!

We were hanging out at a friend’s apartment, which wasn’t too far from the high school, and was located in one of the more affordable areas of town. I remember there being some poor Asian kid in a suit, passed-out cold on the front driveway. He was half-tucked beneath a bush, pants around his ankles, with a puddle of vomit next to his face, and a freaking stun gun just lying beside him, as if either of them belonged there. That is all I’ll ever know about that guy, aside from the fact that his story was probably FAR more interesting than mine. Naturally, our male friends were compelled to snag the Taser. Hilarity ensued with that after many more drinks were had, but all of that is fuzzy.

Anyway, there were about twelve or fifteen of us hanging out in this tiny apartment. As I had a tendency to do, I repeatedly challenged the guys to drinking contests, and most were partaking in herbal refreshment as well. What could possibly go wrong here?

Just as we thought that the night was winding down, but before anyone had a chance to get even a little bored, there was a knock at the door. Naturally, the first thought to spring to everyone’s mind was that it was the cops. Like any smart group of responsible young adults would do, we all began loudly shushing each other, and started turning off lights (completely over-looking the fact that the front door was made of 90% smoked glass, and that there was no back door). We could now see that there was just one individual on the other side of the door, and they finally announced themselves: “Hello? I know someone’s in there! It’s me, Skip!!” One of the guys who lived in the apartment got up and enthusiastically opened the door. There stood this 50 year old hippie dude. He was holding a big briefcase and held a binder under his other arm. And yes, this grown-ass man apparently called himself Skip.

I Suppose It Always Could Have Been Worse. . .

This DOES about sum it up, though (questionable punctuation aside).
This DOES about sum it up, though (questionable punctuation aside). | Source

Kd Who, Now?

Skip was in the neighborhood, and thought he would swing by to see if anybody was willing to let him “practice” fine-tuning his tattoo artistry. In the briefcase was his tattoo gun and supplies. The binder was a compilation of his life’s work. I was D-R-U-N-K, but quickly glancing through Skip’s little portfolio, I was pretty positive that this man was an undiscovered genius!

Some of my friends and I at the time had dubbed our small group “The Crew”, and we were pretty stinking proud of the title. So it was at this time that I made a decision. I, drunk Kd (yes, that’s how I spelled my name. Not only was I self-absorbed, but completely pretentious, and unfortunately unaware of the existence of an artist by the name of Kd Lang), decided that tonight I would let this questionable individual tattoo me. I decided on having the letter ‘C’ in old English lettering on my left shoulder in honor of "The Crew".

So there I sat, in the middle of my friends’ living room, surrounded by a dozen or so of my closest drunk friends, completely inebriated myself, whilst allowing an already drunk and actively drinking grown man by the name of Skip to mark me for life. I’m not likely to get another tattoo ever again. Why would I when I get to tell THIS story to my children one day? Yeah, wish me luck with that! Also, my parents were, and still are so very proud…

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