Narrative

Tapping my foot on the tile floor, I nervously wait in the lobby of the immaculate tattoo parlor for my appointment to begin. Examining a portrait of the Coney Island sideshow performer, Insectavora, I begin to wonder what kinds of looks I'd receive, had I the number of body modifications she possessed. A rough dude with impressive earlobe stretching calls my name from across the shop and we begin the process. I had no idea getting a tattoo involved so much paperwork; filling out liability wavers, listing my allergies, and not to mention – Giving this guy permission to permanently mark my skin.

Laying in a leather recliner, I listen to Swedish death-metal band, Arch Enemy, while the artist prepares my tattoo on a sheet of transfer paper. As he delicately places the outline of a Mexican Sugar Skull tattoo on my forearm, he bites his lip and I notice the snakebites he wears on his lower lip.

Slapping on a pair of black latex gloves, I hear his electric tattoo machine come to life. The artist hangs the vibrating needle above my skin and asks me if I’m ready. I nod and the painful process begins.