It was the best of times. It was the worst of times . .
That's all I could think of today when I was buying clam chowder at Market Street this morning. I was helped by a guy with tats, and (as always) I asked if getting the tats hurt. I don't feel the least bit embarrassed or hesitant to ask this question, because I have learned over the years that guys with tats like to talk about their tats, and so I oblige them. Because yeah. I am weirdly interested in stuff like why people choose the images they do.
(Once when Becky and I were eating at a cafe here in town, I asked our server why he had pumpkins and skeletons and tombstones all over his arm and he said, "In honor of my dead girlfriend." So that night I said to Ken, "Don't get tombstone tats on your arm when I die, okay? Unless, of course, you want you.")
Anyway, when I asked my helper at Market Street today if the tats hurt, he pointed to the left side of his neck and said, "I fell asleep when they did this one." Then he pointed to the right side of his neck and said, "I cried like a little girl when they did this one."
Isn't the human being an interesting thing?