Last week I walked into a clothing store on Fifth Street. I was expecting some t-shirts, maybe even a pair of pants. I wasn't expecting a living room turned tattoo shop. I never thought I'd leave with a tattoo.
I showed the Philadelphia Neighborhoods story to my family. I sent pictures of the art to my friends. I thought they would be impressed, but the responses weren't exactly stellar.
My mother said I was stupid for getting a tattoo in the back of a t-shirt shop. She's convinced I'm going to lose my leg. My best friend asked if that thing on my leg was a pokemon. I guess he's never seen clip art before. I haven't showed my father, but I'm sure he won't be pleased.
With the disapproval mounting from the most important people in my life, I questioned my choice. When my leg stopped itching and most of my flesh had healed I looked at the finished piece. There's a few missing lines, an extra bump here or there. I'll admit that it's nowhere near perfect. But with a little hindsight I can take it for exactly what it is: a pretty good story, with a solid memory to match.
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