sure, footed sans tats

Once upon a time in my life, I dated a tattooed boy. Like, lots of tattoos, and I would stare at them and look at the curves and dips and corners of lines and swirls and colors. Often, I felt sorry for a lost freckle, trapped under a red and black dice. Overall art pieces on one's body seem preferable than a hodgepodge of random thoughts and afterthoughts...this one guy I went to grad school with had one sleeve of ocean flora, another of rainforest flora, to meet in this awesome mix in the middle across his chest. That was pretty. I like tattoos artsy.

In the years following dating said tattooed fella, I have had this reoccurring dream. I wake (in dream), and my legs are tattooed, solid, from the knee down, swirls of green and red and mostly black, but also some blue...frightfully filled in, solid, from top of knee all the way to in between my toes. Somehow I have been tatted, completely, and I freak out that I will never be able to wear skirts again.

Last night, I had a tattooed dream, but this time I woke to find the image of a muscle man tattooed on my back and arms. Like, so when I flexed, it would look like he was flexing. Distraught doesn't cover it, and I couldn't decide if I wanted to have a large Iris created to cover the muscle man, or to spend $5,000 to have it removed.

I woke woke, relieved. Clean skin. Simple. Freckled.