Trying to make out “tiny” is a real stretch


I was up to my eyeballs in leather and ink. The weekend of bikefest and the biggest tattoo show on earth is over. The bikers had tattoos and the tattoo people dressed like bikers so the crowd was fairly homogenized.

I’m not personally a fan of motorcycles or tattoos. I lost a loved one in a little motorcycle incident, and roadkill always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t think people should not ride motorcycles. I’m just not a fan.

As for tattoos, I sometimes like tattoos on other people but I really don’t want any myself. I’ve seen so many women with tattoos that they got before gestating a baby. The tattoo doesn’t look like it should once the skin has been stretched out. It looks like it is trying to melt off.

In the locker room one day while a girl was changing I noticed a tattoo on her stomach. I turned my head to the side like a confused puppy trying to figure out what I was looking at. It kind of looked like writing. I could see the misshapen fading lines crisscrossing with the lines of white stretch marks. “What does that say?” I asked while squinting at it. “Tiny” was the word written permanently on her stomach before she gained all the weight. It was as indecipherable, as her body was no longer “tiny.”


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