As someone with 25 tattoos at the ripe age of 24, I have gotten used to answering a variety of questions, but one question is consistent. “Are you going to regret them when you’re older?” Well, it’s hard to have regrets when we’re talking about something that is quite literally just skin deep, especially when I’ve always had much bigger issues to deal with. The reality is that I shouldn’t have lived this long. By my sophomore year of high school, I was a functioning alcoholic who was way too proud about somehow scoring a B on a math test while blackout drunk, and by the end of my junior year, I had a few suicide attempts under my belt. With that said, if I get the privilege of living long enough for my tattoos to be a little washed out and wrinkly, that’s a gift and a blessing that I refuse to allow to be disrespected by a simple dislike of how my artwork may age over decades. I’m 24 years old with 25 tattoos. Every line on my skin holds memories that help ground me in my existence. My tattoos are deeply personal to me and have more
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