So I got another piercing over the weekend. You can start breathing again, mom, because it was nothing unacceptable. Just, you know, a wholesome tragus piercing (not as dirty as it sounds, swear). And like I was going to turn it down. We had buy-one-get-one-free coupons for piercings and body jewelry. Like I'm going to pass up free.
MOB asked me earlier tonight what the draw was to getting piercings - and tattoos. He has none, as he was raised by the Lord and that sort of thing is frowned upon. (I kid. A little).
I don't know if I have a real, eloquent answer. I just like them. I kind of like the thrill. And the decoration.
I have a freaky fascination with the feel of the tattoo needle (very much unlike the feel of the piercing needle). I like the act of getting a tattoo. I like that it's permanent. I like that it's something I picked out. Something that represents me at that specific time. It's like leaving a mark on my body that defines that time in my life.
If I don't like the tattoos when I'm 70, too bad. I like them now, and that's what matters. I have only three, although it's closer to five if you count additions and, uh, do-overs. Cough.
However, I think I'll give up on piercings, because those needles make me want to die. If I think too much about it during the act of piercing, I'll actually drop dead, swear to God. I have to, like, go to my happy place. It's all, "La, la, la, kitties! La, la - SHIT, DAMN, ASS, FU- !!"
You get the idea.
I had to leave the room while my sister's friend got her nose pierced, and I have my own pierced. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to see it, and I don't want to know it's happening. So don't ask me how or why I've done it. It just happened.