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Scar Tissue and TattoosScars are tattoos with better stories. A fairly well-known adage. Have you ever really thought about it? Someone with a life so uninteresting, so devoid of risk and danger, that they have to go into the dank basement of some miserable, homely ex-biker who has lived more than they ever will, and pay him a week's salary at the factory he used to work in to carve pretty, fake scars into their unmarred flesh? Are their existences really so devoid of experience that they have to put an artificial symbol that someone else came up with under their skin, enlisting the help of a complete stranger? Paying him to do it?
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Fuck that, friends and neighbors. My forearms and hands are bony masses of scars, scars on top of scars. Scars piled high. Burns, bruises, callouses, healed-over gashes, dead skin like a crocodile's hide, turning purple with the winter. Each scar has a story. A chronology. It's own lineage. Rage, sorrow, disappointment, violence, work, play. I can tell the tale behind each scar. W