oops … I think this post is number three …
as in: an ‘Oops!’ moment.
A real ‘Oops!’ moment. You know, the kind of oops moment that hits you full on, like a sackful of wet fish swung with wild rapturous enthusiasm right into your face when you really truly deserve it.
CAN YOU EVEN BEGIN
to imagine the awful, dreadful, utterly stomach-churning sensation you’d get if you woke up sober one morning (I’ve seen guys staggering around the ship next day trying desperately to wish away the tattoos that seemed so ‘macho must have’ the night before) to discover you now look like this—
—and even worse, that you’d actually paid for it?
I KNOW IT’S THE
age of the anti-hero, and that it’s de rigeur these days for even the most feminine of young damsels to be more lathered in cheap tatts than Popeye ever was … dammit, some folks just shouldn’t be allowed to milk idiots.
But it keeps someone in business, and as long as no force is involved (and I never have to look at it) who would I be to bleat? Part of the Rights Of Passage, do we think? Youthful rebellion against the values of earlier dodos? Or is it a truthful statement perhaps, an unconscious way of declaring an IQ level?
I hope I am never that challenged to ‘discover myself’.
And should I meet one of these on the street … pray Gods I can keep a straight face (the keeping of which would be a far greater challenge than any I’ve ever faced). I hate hurting anyone’s feelings, especially someone with values different from mine who genuinely thinks he’s accomplished something. Meaningful …