Etched In Ink.
Last week I got my ninth tattoo. Three circles stacked vertically running down my right forearm, each a different symbol. The first, a sigil I designed derived from “know no shame.” The second, the symbol atheopagans adopted for themselves, the Suntree. The third, one of many variations on a rose by Scottish turn-of-the-century designer, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Each of these small circles has a story behind it, and brought together they look fucking gorgeous. As I walked through the park with my dog 30 minutes later, I would glance down at my arm and think, good lord, how did I ever tolerate just blank skin staring back at me instead of this beauty? I’ve had the same experience with all of my tattoos. The rush of looking in the mirror once you get home, and feeling shocked that the piece of artwork shining back at you is actually on you is one of the best parts about the whole process. This surprised me as much as anyone. Had you known me before 2006, you would have never g