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Mistakes are my own.
"Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
We finally made it. After years, and years of struggle and failure we're finally opening the shop.
But what to name it? That's the last of this long, overdue feat.
"Phat Tatts, but with a 'ph'." Emmett muses, his humor falling flat. We were all too tired for his shit.
"That's a fucking awful name." Even Jasper, the calm, collected one has had his fill.
"Why don't we all just go home, write down some names, and then sleep on it? We'll decide tomorrow." He looks to me, and I nod.
Drained, I take the steps two at a time. They creak, and whine beneath my boots, telling their age.
This place is a dump, but it's my dump.
I just have to keep telling myself that.
Lifting my shirt up and over my head, it gets caught on the silver bar protruding from my chin, and it smarts.
Tossing it aside, I unbuckle my jeans, yanking them off one leg at a time. Then I'm standing there, staring in the full length mirror, wondering why I even have one.
Covered from neck to ankles, this ink, this art it's not for my viewing pleasure, no, it's to hide behind.
And, I do it well.