You know what's more permanent than a tattoo? Regret. Regret marks you on your insides and boy does it sting. Stings so much that perhaps its time we developed a code of ethics for tattoo parlors. Something along the lines of the Hippocratic oath, by which all “artists” pledge to never brand someone with marks more befitting the margins of 7th grader’s notepad than the leg of your favorite team’s coach. Perhaps then we would be safe from all this hideous self mutilation.
In years past, trendy ink was some barbed wire around the arm or a Chinese character that translated to prostate, something you you could hide at least. But now, the only way to conceal you’re scarlet letter is to amputate or sack up and sand it off (a la this guy). And let’s be frank, wouldn’t you rather be slightly disappointed when some ex-junkie brandishing a needle talks you out of plastering...
