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Thursday, May. 30, 2002 / 1:17 p.m. ~Flyin' High In the Caffeinated Sky~ So I'm thinking my coffee was way too strong this morning. I was shaking even before I left my apartment. Flying. Too high. For a moment I was reminded of the time I took some acid by myself - I'd just bought it and I couldn't wait to try it - and I got too high. My brother and his best friend, who happened to be my boyfriend at the time, came over and gave me a Quaalude and all was well. Hey, this was a loooooong time ago. Like 23 years or something. I don't take drugs anymore. Really. Um, except for caffeine. Whoo! Damn, it's killing me. I wanna come down!!! Okay, it's cold in here, in the cubicle (10:30-11:00ish a.m., cubicle time). I have on my little cubicle sweater, but my fingers are freezing so it's hard to type. I came in and excitedly told Veronica all about the Tattoo Convention, cleverly not getting around to what design I've chosen for my own tattoo. The Fundamentalist Christians here would not care much for Tibetan Buddhism. Trust me on this. They don't get it, they don't want to get it, they won't even try. And that's fine. Fuck 'em. Still, she was into hearing about it. The Convention. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. And you know I get this way, all the time lately. Something new, something exciting, I go overboard, way, way. I can't help it. Hopefully, unlike the recent boy excitements, I won't be crushed when it's over. There exists that possibility, that I won't get tattooed, that I will and I'll hate what I get, or that I will spend more than I can afford, or whatever, but I think the possibility of Tattoo Convention disappointment is far less than the recent boy disappointment. Far less. I researched on the Web last night, on my 14.4 dialup connection, all I could on my design choice, and I've downloaded .jpg files, uploaded here at work, made copies, enlarged copies, held them to my ankle to see, etc., etc., etc., almost ad nauseum, and still there is so much left to figure out. Now I need an artist. A Tattoo Artist. I can't fucking wait. Really. Zoom! Caffeine! I could write about work, but I won't. No. Forget it. It's not worth it. My first tattoo?� well� it was such a day, that day, almost 11 years ago� I knew I was going, I knew what I wanted, I knew where I wanted it, I knew where I was going to go to get it. It was a huge day. Did I call in sick? I was working at the bookstore. I was 30 years old, dating a 21 year old hunky Adonis. Steve. God, but he was amazingly beautiful. Unbelievably. And uber intelligent, pre-pre-med. He wanted to be a neurosurgeon. And I'll bet you good money he is exactly that, right now. I'd bet he has his hands inside someone's brain right this minute. Steve was a virgin when I met him. I was his first. Yeah, I popped Steve's cherry. Mmmmm� We woke up together that morning, I think I called in sick. I went to a Psychic Counselor who'd been recommended by my Virgo co-worker, Linda. Linda was into everything spiritual and healthy. She loved this guy, said I should go, take a cassette and he'd record our "session" for me. I challenged him to pick up on HALF of what was going on in my life that day. I'd awakened next to my studly lover, the one with whom I believed I was intensely and passionately in love, I was going for a drastic haircut and a tattoo the very same day. The Psychic Counselor couldn't tell. And it was all written on my face for the world to see. My happiness, my manic excitement, much like today. I have that cassette still, of course, and I love to listen to it, to me saying, "Hmmm�" to everything he said that was weird or wrong. "You need to make peace with your parents.", "Hmmmm� that's interesting. They're dead.", not skipping a beat, "Exactly, that's right, and you need to make peace with them." "Sure. Look, I'm thinking about my own mortality, if I wanted to know, could you tell me when I'm going to die?", "Sure, do you want to know?, we can find that out."� "Hmmmmm� uh, never mind." I got my hair cut short. And the stylist blow dried it, like I never do, so it looked "done" when I left. It wasn't me. And my work friend, Susan, accompanied me to the Tattoo Shop, the Tattoo Parlor. The guy behind the counter must've thought I was crazy. He didn't seem to believe I was in the right place. Sort of a "What the fuck are YOU doing here?" kind of attitude. And I looked at the flash on the walls, harrrumphed, and showed him my little lizard ear cuff, said I wanted something like that on my abdomen. Well, he couldn't draw it, didn't I have a design? Well why can't you fucking draw it?, you're a goddamned artist, right? He tried and couldn't. But he had a book of reptile drawings, and slowly we found one, THE one, the gecko with the proper curvature, the body that slinked and curved, the toes splayed, the long tail. The whole process was so slow, even the way this guy moved, like there was all the time in the world. And Susan provided the moral support. She'd wanted her own, but she chickened out - later, when I got my second tattoo, two or three months later, she gave in and got the ankle band she'd wanted. It didn't hurt. I was so surprised. And there I sat, with my jeans pulled down, my pants open, my underwear pulled down, this total stranger, this man, touching me with latex gloves covering his hands, drilling this ink into me. It was erotic, it was exciting, it was permanent and new and I was high with the experience. It was perfect. The curve of the lizard with the curve of my own belly, just inside my hip. And I'd wanted to write a check, or use a credit card, and back then you had to pay with cash (I had no idea). I'd had to run to the ATM so I could pay. Later, it hurt. It ached. I'd never felt anything quite like it, maybe like a burn or something. And I'd called Steve, he came over and I showed him my new lizard tattoo, over and over and over and over. I'd say, "Hey! You wanna see my new tattoo?!" as if he'd yet to see it. He was so fun about it. An Aries, like me. We were crazy together. We looked at it all night. Know what? It's still there! That's the great thing about tattoos. But it looks different now. Somehow the toes were really close together on one side, on the inside curve, and they "bled" together. When I first saw Tony and he was going to do the dragon on my back he asked what ink I had already and I shyly told him where the lizard was. He said something akin to me being a pussy for not just whipping off my pants and showing it to him, so I did, and he said I should get it re-touched. ! It never occurred to me. I still won't do that. I like it just the way it is, thanks. But that feeling, that excitement, is all rushing back now. And I don't care about money (that lizard was $50) or pain, just getting ink, just getting it done, so I can sit and look at it over and over and over. Right now the process is looking at the naked spot. I don't know if other people do this before they get ink, but I look at it as it is now, a lot, think this is the last time it will look naked, empty. Try to imagine what I want, how it will turn out, if I'll actually get it, how long it will take. I'm coming down a bit. It's been good to write it out. After work I go to the hotel where the Convention will be. I get my three day pass and admission to the Kick Off Party tonight. Then I decide what to wear to said Kick Off Party, go to said Kick Off Party, drink alcohol to loosen up, talk to strangers and get crazy. Have I mentioned being excited? (I just remembered� I dreamed of lizards last night!) Cost of the War in Iraq
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