Did I Ever Fall In Love? I Never Considered His Name Tattooed On My Body

And nobody ever wanted mine

I’ve been obsessed with body art lately. I can’t stop checking out all the assortments of branded coolness that give me reason to wonder why in the heck I never submitted myself to this once rebellious ritual.

Back in my day — getting a tattoo was akin to walking around encased in a wrapping that warned users of the side effects of gulping you. Somehow, it was understood that having inscriptions labeled on your skin was proof that you were prone to unruly and maddening behavior.

I was scared that I would shit in my pants the moment the needle hovered over the delicate hairs of my ass. You see, I have this really weird growth that is quite small — but the fact that it stands at attention on my derriere concerns me. I need to get it removed and when I do — I want that area marked for revision.

Too much info? Sorry about that. I’m not a freak. I just hate that I’m stalling when it comes to that drunken appointment with the artist formerly known as “the rebel instigator” — who will rename the parts of my body that need my artistic input.

One morning— as I contemplated how I was going to navigate another stretch of being homeless because quitting my job three years ago to become a full time writer — is still an ongoing saga that needs to be slotted into the greatest hits of life bombs — I was faced with a champ with the name “David” secured at the back of her shoulder.

Who is David? He is obviously someone worth all my questions.

As the incline on my treadmill lifted off to a higher realm — my mind followed suit as it hit me that I’ve never had the pleasure of desiring the imprint of a love — who tackled my soul but left me bereft with wonder.

As I picked up speed and accommodated the beads of sweat pouring into my eyes and ears — I was faced with the challenge of why I was never amazing enough to warrant the men in my life to demonstrate their helpless disposition with the ultimate proof that you exist.

In the flesh.

Crazy love propels the recognition that you were both there. You arrived at the gates of blissful insanity and part of that pact is the uncontrollable urge to tell the universe and everyone in it — that this perplexingly and intoxicating stream of consciousness is currently holding you ransom.

David could’ve been her brother or lover. Perhaps he was the cousin who died unannounced. Or maybe he is the sexy hubby who rescued her from the missiles of online dating. David is probably the one she can’t live without — despite her attempt to escape his jaws of dishonesty.

Either way — this man means enough for her to have his name in my face like “Hey, deal with it bitch!”

Okay, I’m getting a bit dramatic.

The thing is that I truly wish that I had found that kind of love that fucks the man up to the point of tattoo adherence. Over and over again — he falls for my charm and the body he can’t quite explore fully — despite numerous attempts.

I am twenty-seven and he’s twenty-three. I hate that I’m older and he loves me because I look way younger than he does.

He represents everything I never quite envisioned but he’s arrival disciplines my faith in happily ever after. I was the girl with the “big hair and smile” that gave him a glimpse of what the tomorrows would have up their sleeves — once my name covered the surface of his shoulder like the ink of existence that gives your mornings the caffeine — without that dark stuff floating in your cup.

We were there. Right at the cusp of youthful splendor.

I fucked it up. I destroyed our future and I so wish there were clicks and unlikes back then. There was just the emptiness and sorrow of how something so good could collide with bad memories and the consequences of being born in the first place.

Gio. If you’re out there — show me the tattoo. Prove to me that I was in fact the love of your lifetime.

Let’s match up sometime. I bet mine will be better than yours!

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!