I can hardly remember what my tattoos look like at this point. I’m even having trouble remembering how many I’ve got, and where they were placed on my body. My mental map is eroding by the minute. I know I had good reasons for all of them, but it all seems so trivial now. I’ve definitely lost the sense of wonder that brought me to the tattoo parlors that many times in the first place. Now I can’t stop thinking about all the money I spent on the damn bits of tribalistic symbolism and wondering what I could have done with that scratch if I hadn’t squandered it on body ink. I could have invested it or at least put it into a rainy day fund. Would that have prevented my captivity and objectification as a pawn in the scheme of God knows who? Maybe, maybe not. Who am I to judge the divine plan?
I really wish I could use my arms.