and I could no longer see the pattern. I had to take breaks along the way because of the intensity of the pain, but after a few hours, I finally finished. I couldn’t show it to anyone since my artistic creation would no doubt get back to my mother, but I had to show someone my accomplishment. I thought Michael would appreciate the lengths I had gone to in scarring my body, but when he saw my foot helooked nauseated. I was still bleeding, and he just asked, “What the fuck is that?” He seemed angry with me and looked at me as if I had become a stranger.
Two days later my mother called home from work. She was outraged and cursing, saying, “If you have a tattoo on your foot I will murder you. When I get home from work there better not be anything there! I’ve had enough . . . with your clothes, nose ring, and that hair! You’re a disgrace!” I told her it was fake and that I didn’t have anything on my foot.
I hung up the phone and looked down at the sore wound of my prison tattoo, thinking of ways to remove it. It had been only a few days, so I thought maybe it was possible to scrub off the inky scab. I knew my mother would kick me out of the house if she saw the tattoo. I scrubbed intensely for twenty minutes, but after I rinsed the suds away a horribly drawn black widow spider stared back at me; it wasn’t coming out. I ran to the kitchen and got a Brillo pad. The bleeding increased as I scrubbed it raw with the steel wool, scratching the design out of my skin. As the sanguine-colored suds drained away, I saw that the ink was gone, along with my skin. The wound bled more than during the making of the tattoo, but I was thankful I’d somehow managed to kill the spider. I applied some Neosporin and wrapped my foot in bandages. When my mother came home I unraveled the bandages, exposing a raw, bloody wound, and said, “See! There’s no tattoo!” She looked disgusted, didn’t say a word, and stormed off. I was relieved there was no argument, but her silence always cut deeper than her rants.
I could no longer work at the restaurant with my new look; the only job for freaks like me was at a music store. I worked at Sam Goody Music Land in the local mall, which gave me listening access to all the music I dreamed of. This was the perfect job, and my boss even had connections to a great piercing place in Providence, Rhode Island. My friend Randi—a daffodil holding a machine gun, with bleached-blondehair and a hoop through her nose—and I drove there with no thought of the consequences, and decided to get our tongues pierced.
My mother had a new rule: If I were to get my tongue pierced, she would kick me out and I would have to live with my father. I didn’t think she was serious, and knew she would never see the piercing unless I deliberately showed her. Randi and I shared the same anger with the world and saw the piercing as a necessary solidification of our identities. Still, we were both nervous to get it done.
I went first. Trance music played in the background and beautiful, stainless-steel body jewelry was on display in glass cases all around. This was nirvana. I picked a long barbell for my tongue and headed into another room. The piercer looked exactly like the entity I wanted to become—covered in piercings and tattoos that blurred the boundaries of his skin. I couldn’t see where his flesh started or ended, and the line dividing his art and life’s creation became one unified body of work, transforming him into something new through ink and steel—becoming his own God and creator. He looked beautiful and mean. Those weren’t just decorations, they were tribal scars, and I was eager for my next initiation.
The room looked like a doctor’s office, immaculately sterile and clean. Small gargoyle statues hovered on shelves above the piercing chair. Would those little silent demons watching my baptism allow me to pass? The piercer clamped my tongue with something that looked like hotdog tongs and
Two days later my mother called home from work. She was outraged and cursing, saying, “If you have a tattoo on your foot I will murder you. When I get home from work there better not be anything there! I’ve had enough . . . with your clothes, nose ring, and that hair! You’re a disgrace!” I told her it was fake and that I didn’t have anything on my foot.
I hung up the phone and looked down at the sore wound of my prison tattoo, thinking of ways to remove it. It had been only a few days, so I thought maybe it was possible to scrub off the inky scab. I knew my mother would kick me out of the house if she saw the tattoo. I scrubbed intensely for twenty minutes, but after I rinsed the suds away a horribly drawn black widow spider stared back at me; it wasn’t coming out. I ran to the kitchen and got a Brillo pad. The bleeding increased as I scrubbed it raw with the steel wool, scratching the design out of my skin. As the sanguine-colored suds drained away, I saw that the ink was gone, along with my skin. The wound bled more than during the making of the tattoo, but I was thankful I’d somehow managed to kill the spider. I applied some Neosporin and wrapped my foot in bandages. When my mother came home I unraveled the bandages, exposing a raw, bloody wound, and said, “See! There’s no tattoo!” She looked disgusted, didn’t say a word, and stormed off. I was relieved there was no argument, but her silence always cut deeper than her rants.
I could no longer work at the restaurant with my new look; the only job for freaks like me was at a music store. I worked at Sam Goody Music Land in the local mall, which gave me listening access to all the music I dreamed of. This was the perfect job, and my boss even had connections to a great piercing place in Providence, Rhode Island. My friend Randi—a daffodil holding a machine gun, with bleached-blondehair and a hoop through her nose—and I drove there with no thought of the consequences, and decided to get our tongues pierced.
My mother had a new rule: If I were to get my tongue pierced, she would kick me out and I would have to live with my father. I didn’t think she was serious, and knew she would never see the piercing unless I deliberately showed her. Randi and I shared the same anger with the world and saw the piercing as a necessary solidification of our identities. Still, we were both nervous to get it done.
I went first. Trance music played in the background and beautiful, stainless-steel body jewelry was on display in glass cases all around. This was nirvana. I picked a long barbell for my tongue and headed into another room. The piercer looked exactly like the entity I wanted to become—covered in piercings and tattoos that blurred the boundaries of his skin. I couldn’t see where his flesh started or ended, and the line dividing his art and life’s creation became one unified body of work, transforming him into something new through ink and steel—becoming his own God and creator. He looked beautiful and mean. Those weren’t just decorations, they were tribal scars, and I was eager for my next initiation.
The room looked like a doctor’s office, immaculately sterile and clean. Small gargoyle statues hovered on shelves above the piercing chair. Would those little silent demons watching my baptism allow me to pass? The piercer clamped my tongue with something that looked like hotdog tongs and
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