29 September 2011

Regrets Abound

I've done some dumb things. I've done liquid diets and blown my savings trying to historically recreate the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. I confess that back in my drinkin' days, I got behind the wheel when I had no business doing so. The list could go on for a pretty long time but I'll cut to the chase.

I have tattoos. And out of five, I'm only interested in retaining two. The tacky sun/moon combo on the top of my foot, the eye of Horus (or, also commonly known as B17 on the flash poster) on my ankle and the remnants of a horrible relationship on my shoulder have all overstayed their welcome on my body.

Unfortunately, these new-fangled "lasers" that allegedly remove tattoos no longer welcome are quite pricey and well above my pay grade. I've resorted to using the old timey method of tattoo removal called TCA. Yes, I'm applying acid to my skin to burn away the ink I already suffered for once. It's a little crazy.

The process goes like this: dip a Q-tip in a 30% solution of trichloroacetic acid and rub it vigorously over the offending tattoo. Wait 30 seconds to 3 minutes or until the skin is in such pain that time is of no consequence whatsoever and, hopefully, there is a clear path to an empty bathroom and the water is colder than a witch's nose. (I keep it clean. My mom reads here.) Within a couple of days, mild blistering *may* occur, the skin will dry and peel and the ink will begin to break down. I will have to repeat this cycle another six times to see appreciable fading. It hurts, it's ugly and it's probably yet another really bad decision. But, this is the only option I have right now. Que sera sera.

To my young friends and readers, I suggest piercing. Damn right! Punch holes in everything you got! Go see Stan at Cheap Trx and tell him you want one of everything and two of a couple things. Get jewelry with spikes and dangling crystals on it. Horrify your parents and shock your friends! Get indignant with potential employers about your freedom of expression. Pierce. It. All.

And when you grow tired of everything in that last paragraph, take out the metal, put the barbells and rings in a drawer and go about your business like it never happened. You still want ink? Go down to Art Monster on Cherokee and have them airbrush whatever you want on to a shirt or helmet or some Chuck Taylor All Star hightops.

Meanwhile, I'll be home burning off layers of my skin with toxic chemicals I bought off of Amazon. Not a good look. Not a good look at all.