"the Alpha and the Omega of Whom alone the end becomes beginning, and ends again at the original beginning without any break"

I don't want to get tattooed anymore. 

I just want to BE tattooed now. Finished. The whole kit-and-kaboodle done.  I've been getting tattooed for 19 years. I spent the first few years just getting little things here and there; foolishly taking up valuable real estate with dumb little trinkets that have since been removed and covered up instead of planning out larger pieces. No regrets of course- but man I wish I would have just knuckled down when I was younger and took care of the big spots- ribs, inner thighs- that now need to be filled in.

Despite the culture of LA/Miami Inked- where every tattoo has a story and they never hurt... this stuff kills. Seriously. Not just the tattooing, but the healing.

Note to self- put it in your will that if you get in a coma you want Bruehl to come in and finish everything up.

Where the barkers call the moon down....

I've got a sadness in me today that I'm doing my best to shake. It's likely the weather; cold and gray and rainy as it is outside of my window. Could be seasonal or it could just be a sad sort of day. I find myself trying to wait for some sort of personal revelation ("All revelations are personal- that's why they're suspect") to come while watching movies and packing for my road trip, and instead I find nothing but a familiar melancholy.

That's not a complaint, really. More like a resignation of the reality of my actual day to day life. Little pockets of whimsy surrounded by way too much thinking and planning and reasoning.  I came to the conclusion the other day that my life is a good life.  An interesting life, one that were it not my life would be a life worth coveting. To some degree it seems that the melancholy is an offering to appease the whimsy without which I'd probably totally withdraw. So as with all sacrifices of any worth, I have to go willingly with it.