A tattoo is not just a fuckin scratch. OK

Oh.my.good.god.
I did it.
It’s pretty and I like it – but I really don’t think I would scrape through the pain of having a tattoo ever again. To put it in the most polite way possible – it fucking hurt like hell.

I will never understand why people get ‘addicted’ to getting them done. I will never get that now I’ve put myself through the ordeal.
I can only imagine that similar to women forgetting the pain of childbirth (only to repeat the same experience later) – people forget the ferocity of part-taking in an ancient tradition of branding oneself.

I mean, they compare a drug relapse to childbirth, 'They' being NA & AA , and they say if you remembered the pain would you put yourself through it again?
(that's why people are advised to go to meetings to be reminded of the pain (of addiction) they came from)

I will never let it be said again, in my presence that a tattoo‘ it’s like a scratch’ – IT IS NOT LIKE GETTING FUCKING SCRATCHED– unless one is being scratched by one of those implements we all used at school to draw perfect circles. ( Cant remember it's name).. That, or a sharpened barbecue skewer, that has been sitting in the coals for an hour.
I kid you not.

You know something though – I am rather disappointed with myself.
I think of myself as a tough woman , I really do. So, the fact that I freaked out like I did seems out of character... Actually the freaking out wasn’t so unusual – but the reason was.
I was ‘la-la-la-la-hum-hum-hum-ah-ah-ah’ out loud. Singing mumbo jumbo despite being unable to actually sing a note when my body is not being massacred.
The tattooist kept saying ’ You’re doing well. You are woman’... Err, well I’m certainly ‘woman’ but I was definitely not ‘doing well’.
As he was referring to me as ‘woman’, the insinuation was that therefore I must show strength and momentarily represent female kind. That put me under no pressure whatsoever, of course, so I was left with no other choice but to do what any other other ‘woman’ would - and grit my teeth even more.

This I did whenever he resumed after I yelled ‘ I can’t do this. I can’t get through it.’
So, now for the good news amigos: I have to go back in two weeks to get more colour done .

I can’t friggin’ wait.

I couldn’t stand being there another fucking moment longer. Not today. I needed to get the hell outta dodge and get my ass home.
Jesus Christ - let me tell ya - from this day forth I will view repetitive tattooing as being a form of self-mutilation. I mean, what the fuck? Why? Why? Why do people do it?

And as for childbirth – PLEASE remind me that there is such a thing as an elective cesarean. When I’m bleating on about being an ‘earth mother’ and feeling the magnificent pain of bringing God-given life into this world, someone PLEASE tell me to shut up and call me a wuss.

I have one last thing to say on the matter: These pretty flowers do look very, very nice indeed and perhaps when I go back in two weeks I will, maybe, just maybe, there’s a very tiny possibility that I may have just one more flower added to my cute little cluster...