If you don’t know me, allow me to tell you that I am coated in tattoos. My left arm from shoulder to mid-forearm is all florified. My right arm has a big 9/11 memorial. So around this time of year, when I start wearing sleeveless tops, I get remarks.
So the new guy at work sees me in the lunchroom.
“Hi” he says. (He’s never said hi before.)
“Hi.”
“So, you like tattoos?” (No, hate ’em. I’m wearing them as a form of masochism. Here’s your sign.)
“Yes.”
“Is that the World Trade Center?”
“Yes.”
“Do you change them around sometimes?” (Oh. My. Gods.)
“No, they’re permanent.”
“Oh.”
It went on, but that was the fun part. For variant definitions of fun.
(Cross-posted at If I Ran the Zoo.)
“Do you change them around sometimes?” That’s the best one I’ve heard yet. Talk about unclear on the concept! (All I ever get is “oh, is that a REAL tattoo?”)
I get the “real tattoo” all the time as well. And given the size of it…well, my thought it always, “Sure, I got up five hours early this morning to paint this baby on.”
I mean, I can understand being ignorant about tattoos, but I’m baffled that people don’t realize that body paint washes off!