I love tattoos. I got my first tattoo when I was 20. My sister took me to a tattoo place in the Highlands neighborhood of Louisville and my tat was done by this biker dude with a long beard who couldn’t stop laughing at me because I hyperventilated and nearly passed out from the pain. When it was done, approximately 4 minutes later, I had a tiny (1 inch tall) tattoo of a yellow daisy on my outside left ankle. My 20-year-old self loved that tat. I felt like a badass. My sister, of course, spent the next decade commenting about my “mole” that looked like a flower because it was so small.
I’m home from Seattle. (You couldn’t hear it but I just let out a long, sad sigh.) Continue reading “Seattle, seed catalogs, and a hole in my nose”