Let’s say you planned a smashing New Year’s Eve party with your partner-in-crime (funny, that phrase) who happens to live across the street. And let’s say that the revelry was everything you hoped it would be (except maybe you could have cooked less because MY GOD the food), and everyone had fun, and played charades and the rugrats were well-behaved, and you all drank and were merry.
I mentioned the drinking, right?
So then let’s say near the end of the evening,
your partner-in-crime someone thought it would be a grand idea to pull out her girls’ tattoos. And maybe you decided to put a gangsta fish on your boob. High up! so it wouldn’t be on your boob-boob, but low enough that it wouldn’t show with most necklines. And then you convince your sister and your friend to put some gangsta fishes on, too, because hey! they’re temporary! and everyone needs salty boobs! Or, erm, something. (My god, the drinking!) And everything was fun and good and fish-afied in the world.
So then lets say you all woke up the next morning and laughed when you got dressed because HEY THERE’S A FISH ON OUR BOOBS! and you maybe remembered what happened! And it was so funny that you didn’t bother scrubbing it off in the shower because he was a happy little tattoo. And then a few days after that, you stopped avoiding him when you were washing up, but man, that gangsta fish was a tenacious little sucker. And so he was starting to look a little crackly and worn out, but was still very much there. And THEN let’s say that maybe the guy you’ve been emailing back and forth with finally asked you out for this weekend, so you decided Maybe it is best if I don’t have a scraggly looking “temporary” fish tattoo on my boob – just in cases. ONLY THE SUCKER WOULDN’T SCRUB OFF. So there you are in the shower, scrubbing with the bar of soap, and then with your nails, because great googley moogley, that fish ain’t going anywhere. And then you stop, finally satisfied. Ding, dong, the fish is gone!
Except then maybe you get out of the shower and stare down at where your bright orange fish used to be and realize that the scrubbing or the tattoo or the combination of it all somehow burst some of the blood vessels just under the skin and oh great – now it looks like you have a giant hickey high up on your boob.
Four days before a first date.
And somewhere, somewhere, you can hear the ghost of your gangsta fish “temporary” tattoo laughing in a whispery voice, “Ha, ha beeyotch!”
Never drink and tattoo, folks.