I want a little unicorn tattoo, sharp little horn and a sparkle in her eyes. But where? My hip. The pain will be worth it when I’m lounging on the yacht with the parentals, and they catch sight of my new ink.
I know what they’ll say. The butterfly morphs into a bloat-headed eagle with age.
They’ll ask what happens when I’m a nursing home inmate? I’ll hang out with the other cool-kid oldies, sharing ink stories and Xbox gaming like the badass I am. Those cleanskins will stick out like sore thumbs at the bingo tables.
That’s it. I’m booking tomorrow.
No Ragrets.