But I still have no idea what’s coming from England

I asked for a tattoo for my birthday. I couldn’t think of anything else.

Well, I could. But no one was buying me a puppy, an Aston Martin, or Tom Hardy.

Or Tom Hardy driving my Aston Martin with a puppy in the passenger seat.

My Honey wrote me up a really funny gift certificate.

Enlarge to read the fine print

He’s a funny guy. See why I like him?

Take for example the fine print:

By Tattoo Shop we mean an actual business, not the back shop area of a Harley Davidson repair shop, or the kitchen of a tattoo artist that just doesn’t “like the constraints of working out of a regular tattoo shop.” It may also not be redeemed at any motorcycle “Clubhouse” or at any detention facilities; ie: jail or prison.

This is pretty good too:

Please note issue of certificate can not be held responsible for any pain, discomfort, swelling, bleeding, infection, scarring, adverse or allergic reactions. In other words you asked for it. The issuer will give a customary, “I know that shit hurts!” and a “Oh, poor baby” if asked to do so. The issuer will also refrain from comments such as “Damn that thing looks infected”,  “Are you sure it’s supposed to ooze like that?” and “What the hell is that supposed to be again?”

Ava came along today for the actual tattooing. She brought her camera so she could document me crying. She was so, so certain that I would. Do you see what I have to put up with? I assure you I didn’t cry. Not during this tattooing or the other five that came before.

It’s exactly what I wanted. My princess crown and the words CALM DOWN – cause I’m a little high-strung. Remember all those stories I’ve told you about when I get my edits back?