Inked.

This particular story comes from the ghetto house, less than 24 hours into my 20 day stay there.

I came back to the house after a day of interviews and coming just short of plastering my resume on every telephone pole and bulletin board in downtown Denver, welcomed by a cold beer and a shot of whiskey (I can get used to that) and the salutations of new friends. The frustrations of walking around in the hot weather looking for a job were definitely offset by the call telling me I had a job, and at one of my favorite coffee shops in Denver to boot. Hooray! Next stop: apartment.

But first, shenanigans. After putting down my stuff I began to meet the roommates I hadn’t managed to meet the night before and a few new friends who were hanging about. My friend Urban Jesus was off at work but me, being who I am, can make friends with anyone.

The evening wore on, the music kept playing, and the typical ‘what should we do now?’ conversations began happening. One of the kids at the house, whom I’ll call Hankie (he carried around a nasty blue handkerchief wherever he went) was also a burgeoning tattoo artist and happened to have his tattoo gun with him.

Yeah. That’s about to happen.

Hankie’s friend Powder (so called for his affinity towards, well, powdered substances) wanted a Russian prison tattoo on his knee, so he got it. I mean, really? Foreign or domestic tattoos popular with felons rank right up there with Spring Break ’07 butterfly tramp stamps- not a good idea, ever, and it will come back to haunt you and affect your children. Anyways.

The main event came when Hankie decided that we all should tattoo our names on him; more specifically, on his posterior. We all looked around at each other, laughed a bit nervously, and realized he was serious. Take into consideration the fact that we were all fairly intoxicated at this point.

Bottom line (pun absolutely intended)- I tattooed a guy’s ass. With my name. In Arabic.

Also, I may have accidentally written one of the letters wrong. Ooooops!

Color me flabbergasted.

And, to answer any questions you may have around the astonishment of the randomness (and slight ick factor) of this story, no, tattooing wasn’t hard, and yes, being that close to a strange butt was indeed strange.

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