silver rings from barcelona.

This personal essay is fucking hilarious. It's about a Johnny Cash tattoo and meaningless sex and awkwardness.

Tattoos can go either way for me. Either they're beautiful and sexy (this usually requires some sort of personal connection to the art) or they're a stand-in for something beautiful and sexy. As Faulkner would say, "a shape to fill a lack." I know a lot of people with small tattoos - shamrocks and stars and things of the like. The ink doesn't mean anything more than a cry for attention, maybe even for sexual or personal validation.

Personally, I have only really liked two tattoos in my lifetime. One belongs to my best friend, Sam. She has two beautiful sisters and they all have the same spiraling curls and dark eyes. Her father passed away almost three years ago, but it took them all until about a year ago to realize that they all had the exact same tiny birthmark in the space between their stomachs and their ribcage. They all had their father's signature tattooed - very small - beside it. It's a point of connection, a manifestation of their sisterly bond. It's a bond that I will never understand but will always wish for. And this little swirl of black commemorates their father, who was musical and intelligent and loving and showed each and every one of his daughters what it means to love. I think it's just gorgeous.

The other tattoo that I truly do like belongs to Joe. It's a cherry blossom tree that runs down his arm. The pink blossoms sprinkle across the branches and give the whole thing this sprezzatura feel, of carelessness and natural beauty. He tells me his friend designed it, but I don't know much else. I just know that it's beautiful and that it made his parents angry and that it blends seamlessly with his whole aesthetic as a human being. Yeah, I said it. A human aesthetic. I don't know any other way to explain it.