In college, I took German as a way to reconnect with my mom. I always knew bits and pieces since her side of the family is from Germany. She even spent the better part of her childhood growing up there. She still speaks it fairly well, and once you start speaking it with her she picks it up and runs with it. A few months ago, I asked my mom to write ‘Ich Liebe Dich’ a few times on a piece of paper and send it to me in the mail. It’s something she always says to me before she hangs up the phone. 
I’m one of those people who believe that ink should be personal and should always have a story behind it. And no, not to sound pretentious or anything, the story shouldn’t start with, “Well, me and my friends were in Panama City for Spring Break…” Mom once asked me why I didn’t get a Tinkerbell instead of the ‘Tinkerbell’ I have written on my skin. It’s because it’s not about character Tinkerbell, but rather something that Nana has called me ever since I was a little girl. I proceeded to explain to my mom that butterflies and ‘faeries’ and initials are all things that will never find a permanent home on my body. 
The first tattoo I ever got was the ‘Tinkerbell’ that sits below my hip bone. I had it placed there because I was 20 at the time and I didn’t want the parents to see it. It was sketched out by hand after the artist got a feel for my personality after a few minutes of chatter. It’s not exactly how I imagined it would be, but I loved it as soon as I saw it and gave him the green light to hike my pants down a few inches and carve a needle through my skin.
My second tattoo was something that I had been thinking about for a few years, as I did the Tinkerbell one. I’m a big believe in karma and the whole ‘do unto others’, so I went with ‘One reaps what one sows’ around my wrist (you reap with your hands, after all). I wasn’t prepared for all of the oh-wow-what-does-that-say’s that I’d get at the bar. And it’s in German, so people tend to grab me and pull my extremities into uncomfortable positions so they can better read it. I love how they just say, “Man,” then pause for a second, and switch to, “Is that in another language or something?” Sometimes if I’ve been drinking Vodka I’ll say, “You know, the closer you get the better it translates.” If I’ve been drinking gin and the person is particularly douchey I’ll say, “Even if I told you what it says, you still wouldn’t understand.” My ex Eric particularly loved the reaction of one person when I said that. My favorite question hands-down has to be, “Did that hurt?” It felt like I placed my wrist in front of a chainsaw, personally, but if I’m in a particularly fiery mood I’ll tell you that I orgasmed as soon as the ink hit my flesh.
The guy that branded me was a sketchy fellow at your stereotypical strip mall ink shop, since my first artist went AWOL. He wasn’t very personable, and I think he might have been on meth. Quite possibly not the best person to do the job, but I was feeling compulsive. Plus, there was a great little pizzeria that had the only garlic knots in Orlando that taste like the ones from a little pizza joint in New Smyrna Beach that I love. Eric and I stopped in there afterwards for a slice and conversation with the people that ran it.
Daniel Coverstone, however, is my artist of choice from now on. Introduced to me through a college friend of mine, I’ve let him imprint my mom’s handwriting behind my ear. Dan’s studio is at his place, and is far nicer than 95% of the shops I’ve ever walked into. He told me stories about the people he’s learned from, how he would change the industry, and why he likes his home studio better than any shop. He was meticulous with the project- something that the last artist wasn’t and I regret it now. Dan will be commissioned to fix my wrist, actually. The whole project took a good hour and a half between sizing the writing sample and placing it, with the actual tattoo being done in about 15 minutes.
No, it didn’t hurt. And you know what? It’s exactly how I always wanted it.
