Well, fuck, now I've got a tattoo. Hurrah for me. While it was going on, it felt like a weird tickle. It hurt, but not very much. I'm lucky mine is much smaller than Lindsay's; by the end, her back was so sore she was tearing up. (Okay, maybe this makes me a bad person, but my God she was beautiful. She was trying to remain stoic, but her eyes were puffing up and the color had gone from her face, and it was all I could do to not hold her.) For the curious, it is a black skull and crossbones on the upper part of my left forearm. Right now it feels like a bad sunburn, and I'm not looking forward to the scabbing and peeling, but I've got a tattoo. And I'm sure it won't be my last. Yes, that's right, I am now officially a poser. "Hey, man, I'm hardcore."

Brad, our tattoo artist, was listening to Marilyn Manson and Primus. He asked what I though of that kind of music. I was charitable. Yes, it sucked, and sure I lied to him, but I figure it's best not to piss off the man who is permanently scarring your flesh.