Author: Michelle

There is a lot to like about a tattoo shop.

For one thing, you get tattooed there. That buzzing is so relaxing! Aside from that, though, I just like being there.

Everyone there tends to be kind of weird. I like weird.
The profanity level is high. The level of general inappropriateness is high. There’s art everywhere, including on the skin of the people.

I like talking to the artist about what I want, and then seeing the drawing when it’s done. It always amazes me when someone can take an idea and turn it into a picture. The whole process of having color applied to skin is fascinating.

But it is the absolute randomness and wild tangents of the conversations that I really love. The ones between the tattooers and their clients, and the ones between the tattooers themselves. I always come out of a tattoo shop having done some laughing. And maybe a little friendly swearing at the person trying to tattoo my chest while he is making me laugh.

What do we talk about?

Neuticles. Treating the scrotum with respect. Japanese bondage porn in which women in spike heels stomp on men’s scrotums. Is there such a thing as too big? Who has the wildest “too big” story? What sort of fetishes do we get or just not get at all. Adult onesies.

The relative desirability of various suicide methods. A semi-serious discussion of the impact on survivors. Reasons not to commit suicide. Taking out everyone you know and then killing yourself as a possible way to avoid leaving survivors who might feel bad if you offed yourself. The desirability of leaving a note. Or, in my case, timed blog postings over the next several months after my death. What? Don’t you want to keep hearing from me after I’m gone?

We also had a talk about exactly the world could be rid of the scourge of gingers. Ways in which the last few remaining red heads could be exploited for profit. Whether or not any shade of red hair is attractive. How red is too red.

I’m ready to go back anytime

What should I get?

.

Wake up in the middle of the night crying.
Not sure why. Maybe a bad dream.
What actually woke me up is tears dripping. Sort of a disconcerting way to wake up. Physical symptoms of distress, but no clue as to what the distress is about.

Try to comfort myself.
Fail.
Blow my nose, wipe my eyes, wash my face.
Try to get back to sleep.
Fail.
Get up and wander around the house. Get a drink of water.
Fail.
Want a cup of coffee. Don’t have one.
Hey! Success. I’m counting that as success. I resisted temptation.

Start thinking about how much time I spend talking to myself.

Not out loud. In my head. Or in writing, which is essentially the same thing except that other people can see the words. Like thought bubbles in cartoons.

Waking up in the middle of the night is good and bad. Mostly bad. Who am I kidding? We’ve all done it. Wake up. Try to sleep. Resist the urge to get up because bed is warm and house is cold.

I’ve been awake since 1, and now it’s after 3. I resisted getting up, because I don’t want to be cold, even though I know this pattern well enough to know that if I don’t get up I will never get back to sleep.

That’s the weird irony of being awake in the middle of the night: if you don’t get out of bed, you don’t get back to sleep. So I get up. Sit down. Start typing.

What about?
Nothing.

It’s the Seinfeld Show of blogging, but without the extra additional comedic genius of Kramer. Cramer? Count the words on the blog. 123,195. No, not personally. There’s an app for that. Although, I bet if I did count words it would make me fall asleep.

Maybe what I need is a cocktail.
Resist that, too.

Wish I would stop sniffling. Worry that maybe I’m not crying at all, maybe I am getting a cold. That would suck. I was sick all Winter. I’m done with being sick.

Kind of hungry.
Do not need a snack. It’s 3:45 am.

If it was happy hour, I could have a snack AND a cocktail. It isn’t happy hour. On the contrary. Hmmm. It is sort of the exact opposite. It’s about half a clock away from happy hour time-wise, and certainly I am not feeling particularly happy at the moment.

Now what?
I’m cold. Sleepy. Sniffly. Definitely a little dopey. I could be all seven of the dysfunctional dwarves.

Hey! Dysfunctional Dwarves would be a good band name. Or is that un-PC? I’m too tired to actually decide…

Resist the urge to message spam my friends, because…well..really…why not message spam my friends? Oh, they can read this if they wonder what I do all night.

My new tattoo looks cute though…and my new shoes are supposed to resist Satan…so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Say goodnight, Gracie.

Goodnight, Gracie.

PS
Went back to bed. Thought of something. Got up. Wrote it down. Back in bed. Laughing at myself.

It seems really strange to me how much time I spend explaining.
Misunderstanding.
Thinking people are mad at me.
Being sad about how I think they feel about something I think I did or said that upset them. Maybe. Or chastising myself for being a nutcase for worrying about things I only imagine.

I always feel like I’m so clear. When I talk, anyway.

Or maybe people really are just mad at me all the time. Or disappointed, sad or any of the dozens of other things I credit them with being.

Would that be better or worse, I wonder?

There are only a few people I would be able to state it to so baldly if I did think they were…not right with me in some way. Most people would look at me funny and respond with a monosyllable, which would make me even more worried. Which is really probably a sensible response to my crazy. I can only think of one person who not only would get it if I asked her if she was mad at me for no reason but would also respond as if my concerns were not insane at all. Thanks, Sharon, for being that person.

This is the sort of conversation I imagine myself being able to have:
“Hey, did I say or do something to piss you off/make you sad/anxious or otherwise upset the other day?”
“No, why”
“No reason. You said “nice” in response to something I said, and I assumed that you meant it sarcastically and hate me/are mad/sad/frustrated.”
“No, we’re good. Thanks for checking.”
“And thank you for answering me when I’m crazy.”

Wouldn’t it be nice?
In a totally non-Beach Boys kind of way?
Brian Wilson wouldn’t have had to spend nearly as much time in bed if he’d been able to just get the crazy stuff in his head out of his head.

Having such a good imagination can be a challenge at times.