That's my new body art. Let me tell you something -- you don't completely know yourself until you sit in a chair half naked for two and a half hours with a needle in your skin bleeding all over yourself. And you do this by choice. I've been planning this tribal tattoo forever. When I want to mark a period of time in my life, I do it on my body. I want to be like one of those gorgeous old trees with notch marks and hearts etched into its surface as it grows and grows. A map of history, each swirl and impression a token of turning points, stepping stones, and landmarks. I hit a couple of those this week and I need to commemorate. This world is so magical to me right now and I want to remember this feeling forever. It is in stark contrast to where I spent the past couple of years. This tattoo is a big reminder.

This is my third tattoo. You can kind of see my second one in the photo on the back of my neck; it's the Japanese character for "sea." I have to admit, I went into this a little cocky. I am convinced that inside I am actually a badass. I have my moments -- but this was an excruciatingly long moment. My other tattoos took about 20 minutes of needle time each. Just enough to be annoying, but not too painful. I've heard the wrist is a painful place to get ink, and it did hurt for me, but it didn't take long enough to put me through any endurance tests. Two and a half hours is another story.

While I was sitting in that chair, I went on a big head trip. The act of tattooing in itself is cathartic for me, as is piercing. There's something empowering about giving someone else permission to inflict pain on you, pain that results in an altered appearance. I pierced my tongue six or seven years ago, and I still remember the boy who did it. It was one of the most erotic experiences I've had. I'm not into S&M at all -- at all -- but body art is different for me. So I've got these pieces of art decorating my body, and I will always remember the event, and the time surrounding it, and the artist that has forever left traces of their fingertips on my skin.

The tattoo artist doing my piece was Gennifer, who was soft-spoken and talented. She was into swing dancing, and the stereo alternated between rockabilly and death metal as she and her coworker took turns choosing CDs. I asked her what the most painful place was to get work done, and she said, "Anyplace where there's a lot of bone." And she traced my vertebrae with her finger, where the majority of the tattoo was going. "Like your spine."

My cockiness was amplified when the manager came over to see the work going on, and I gave him a hard time. He's like, "Do you want a soda? I don't want you passing out on me." and I'm like, "What do I look like, a wuss? Give me a freakin break. Coke's not going to save me." He kind of looked at me for a minute, and I gave him my raised eyebrow, and he shrugged and walked away. An hour and a half later, I was crying for Coke -- and heroin.

One of the complications was that I was bleeding, a lot, and every time she went over the area with the gun, the blood would push the ink out and she'd have to go back and do the section over.

I sat in the pain and breathed. Not all of it was excruciating, but there were moments that brought to mind the lye chemical burn in Fight Club. I kept going into my cave and looking for my power animal, but instead of a penguin sliding on ice, I was finding a devil with a pitchfork and fire shooting out of his nostrils. I kept thinking over and over, "In the exact now, we are all, always, all right." Which is some quote from Julia Cameron that I keep handy. It worked for a bit. That and "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I alternated. Occasionally my vision would go white.

Toward the end, I was filled with an enormous amount of adrenaline, and I hit an ethereal calm. It was an amazing feeling. I was deep in my head, and people were trying to talk to me, but I couldn't talk, and I just looked at the pain and thought, this pain is huge, so big, but no matter how big it is, I am bigger. Because I was sitting there with open hands and perfect posture, not flinching or gripping or fidgeting or crying. Just sitting and breathing. And Gennifer was laughing because the guy next to me was getting his forearm done, and he was screaming in tears. He and I both got up occasionally to pace the floor for a few minutes.

As we were nearing three hours, I had enough. I was starting to see stars, and they weren't the pretty kind. But we were done.

I told the manager that I wanted a Coke now, and he smiled. I was tough though, don't be fooled. I'm one badass motherfucker. And I'm not limping about today trying not to touch anything, flinching each time my sweater touches my back, carrying my messenger bag gingerly over one shoulder. Riiiiight.

Of course, I'm already planning the additions I'm going to make to the work, bringing it up closer to my neck. I just couldn't sit there any longer.

I left with a lot of respect for myself. It was incredible. I highly recommend it if you'd like to take a close look at yourself and then leave something to remember the view.

~ the joyful, painted thing ~