I was reading an article about a lampshade made out of human skin last week, and while describing the man who sold it to him, the author writes:
Tattooed onto the guy’s stomach, visible between the edge of the too-small T-shirt and the empty belt loops of his saggy jeans, it said NOLA.
This seemed redundant, Skip thought. The way he looked, like some demented brigand with a hacked-off Mohawk haircut, and the way he talked, in that incongruous river-rat amalgam of off-angled Brooklynese with the occasional flowery southernism thrown in, where else could the guy be from but New Orleans?
And immediately, I was overcome with the need to have the word Ohio tattooed onto me.
I’ve always toyed with the idea of a tattoo but didn’t want to get one just to have it (I’m looking at YOU, younger sister), and at a certain point, I figured I’d just outgrown them. But this seems so perfect and obvious.
As with the guy in the article, my Ohio tattoo would be redundant. I live in New York City, but I’m in Ohio. It’s what I’m made of, and half of me is still there. But that’s the point.
Kamran hates the idea, so one of my co-workers suggested hiding it somewhere like my hip, but I want to look at it every day, and I want it to be seen every day.
You can picture me with this on the inside of my forearm, right?
Except, like, way, way more ornate, because that’s what Ohio deserves.