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Myself, in a sentence
An alcoholic, whiskey soaked version of Mother Teresa.
My favorite tattoo and the story behind it
This is like asking me what my favorite novel is. So, I will cheat and say I have two: the tattoo on my foot, and the tattoo on my forearm. The ink adorning my right foot is a matching tattoo, of which my baby brother has its counterpart. We got our tats together, right before he deployed to Iraq. He is my favorite man in the entire world, so it only makes sense that our matching ink is a favorite of mine as well.
My tattoo on my right forearm is a tribute to my man Ernest Hemingway, and was a present to myself after I received a copy of the first literary piece I was able to get published in print. Ernie was quoted as saying "There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit in front of a typewriter, and bleed."
My first tattoo and the story behind it
I was a young, wide-eyed 20 year old who had thought out her first ink for years. It is the Puerto Rican national flower, and the Alaskan state flower, in black and white on the right side of my hip. I felt like the biggest bad ass getting a tat that would take 2+ hours to complete. It is shaded beautifully, and a great way [I think] to pay tribute to my wonderfully weird combination of a heritage.
My next tattoo
I cannot wait for my next piece! She is going to finish out my left rib cage, and will be a fifties style pin up girl. She will, undoubtably, be sexy as hell; holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and an opened book in the other. She will also, like most women, cost me an arm and a leg.