Sting on my friend, sting on.

I despise first posts.
They are like introductions.
But I'm guessing the only way you can really know someone is by, well, being with them, so be with me and you'll get to know me.

That was my formal introduction to this very new way I'm experimenting with to communicate to the world the pains of procrastination, and serve as a negative example to future kids of what not to do with an internet connection.

Either way, I suppose that what I do now is exaggerate a simple story, to make a pretty normal day seem great, or to make myself feel better than I am. That's what typing in a little white box is for. I also have another blog back on hipsterville, but here I'm actually trying to sound intelligent.

Today was a day of great beginnings. The emptiness I felt on new year's, right when the countdown struck midnight of January 1st, I was able to acquire through pain. No, this is not a story on how self-harming is good for you, as a means to obtain "a controversial edge" to the post, but rather, me discussing tattooing.

Isn't it intimidating to walk into a tattoo shop? Especially with a tie-dye shirt. My fear of being labeled and shipped off to a categorical stereotype destination in someone's mind definitely did not help in that sense, but I made it through the glass exit door, so it mustn't be atrocious. Not to the "atrocious" level.

I was told to rummage through a magazine for inspiration, but every page I turned I saw the usual wings for fly-away dreamers; infinity symbols for the ones afraid of the unknown or graphic expressions to the breast sizes of ideal women. Not like the birds on my ankle, that I ended up getting, were less likely to be gained a first impression upon. Not such a good one by the tough tattooers.

After the suspense build-up, that occurred dramatically between stencil-making, and numerous bodily accidents that caused me to leave the store numerous times, I was finally walked upstairs. It looked like a hospital bed.

The improbable surgeon, who's pattern colored muscular endless arms held the most unwelcoming of devices, which in turn made the most dreadful sounds, proceeded to cut my skin slowly, and painfully. Of course, I expected pain. Who wouldn't? Especially after said surgeon makes sure to announce that the pain could be unbearable.
"You could be lost at any second, but do not move, do everything but move"

Without moving there's little one can do. So I thought.

Thinking is one of those things no one seems to practice anymore. Thoughts are now just random information that one examines in his mind. I still believe much thinking we end up doing in our lives in useless, but it's important to remind ourselves that reflecting serves a purpose. I don't do that often, seeing as I'm impulsive, but to stop and meditate is a great experience to clear one's self off any worrisome or paranoid fear.

Obviously, the conclusions I reached weren't that articulate, while someone cut through my skin what would you expect, but I mostly thought about how emotions and pain itself could mean different things to people. With language, we generalize a concept or idea. Take love, to you in might mean hearts and chocolates, to him it might mean fancy dinners and royal hotels, and to me it might mean sex. This is a hypothetical situation, let's remember.

Pain too. To someone, what I felt today (and I'm feeling now) might not even be close to pain. To me it was, but what if it wasn't.

The moral of me tattooing three bird on my leg is that everything could be nothing, and our language and definitions aren't anyone's but ours.