I Want Hand Tattoos.

I am not a member of the recently and completely made up coalition of Workers for a Tatted America.

I have tattoos. I have a quarter sleeve of a compass and anchor that is an homage to my grandmother coupled with a line from a J.R.R. Tolkien poem on my left shoulder and bicep. I also have the lyric “Sorry For The Mess” from the Vance Joy song, Mess is Mine, written in cursive sitting beneath an ink bottle and old-fashioned fountain pen in the minimalist and over-priced style on my right forearm.

I wholeheartedly believe anyone with tattoos should be barred from the public and corporate workforce and subjugated to be an at-home contributor to our society’s economy.

Every morning that I wake up for work, I meticulously roll up the sleeves of my plaid, grunge era button up in efforts to show off my tattoo. It’s honestly just so much work to have to deal with all that shit. Thus, just keep us out of the public workforce. I’ll be the first to sacrifice myself for this to be put in effect.

Unfortunately, I can hide my degeneracy far too easily by just keeping my sleeves down, which in turn is keeping me in the workforce for now until the foreseeable future.

Down with the social construct that for some reason now accepts us lazy fucks (that only got tattoos to purposefully be avoided on a constant basis) to work our meaningless jobs that warrant such apparel that can “roll up” in the first place.

Down with the people that think “tats” are “cool”.

I want hand tattoos. Can’t hide that shit.

Well, you can, but I’m too much of a pussy to get my ink on face.




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