it hurts like a mutha

"Mom, I never, ever want to be tattooed, ever again."

Message sent to Mom.

Thirty seconds later: Incoming call: Mom.

"So did you or did you not get a tattoo?"

"I did, and I'm never going to get another one!" I said, that made Mom laughed really loud. It was not just an amused laughter, it was triumphant, filled with victory.

"I told you. How big is it anyway?"

"Eighteen centimeters (that's about eight inches)." UPDATE: apparently, the tattoo is 23 cm (about nine inches).

"Okay, well, it's good to know that you've had enough."

Then the phone conversation ended.

I always backtrack, and I'm going to backtrack this post yet again, because I just think I should blog about it after writing my conversation with Mom. This one is with my boyfriend.

"So, the picture doesn't have orange or red, while the real eye peacock feather has that red and orange and yellow hue. You have to make sure I get those colors. I don't want the tattoo to be too bluish," I told my boyfriend.

"What? I thought you were going to come too."

It took me about five seconds to realize that he was joking.

"Geez. Since it's my skin, of course I have to be there, duh? But I can't see behind my back, can I? I need you to tell the tattooist to make sure he gets the colors right."

In the end, my boyfriend did play a significant role in taking the pictures, cleaning the new ink when we're home, and applying the antiseptic lotion.

Froggy, the guy who did my tattoo at Bali Ink was supernice, superfunny, superartistic, and superprofessional. There was almost zero drop of blood.

Every time I saw people walking with their tattoos, my scar pounds mercilessly on my back and I feel that stinging sensation from the piece of jewel I will never ever see with my own eyes.

It hurts like a mutha and I'm scarred for life now. Literally. But at least it's a pretty scar. A pretty, peacock-feather-shaped scar.