Written to the sound of Irish folk music and the cheers and jeers of the parade-watchers.
Five or six or seven years ago, I fell off Archie.
(Facebook just told me it was six.)
I broke my butt in two places. While I consider the time I fell off the (actual) pony to be a much worse injury, the double coccyx fracture was no joke.
So I immortalized the occasion by getting a tattoo. I might be the world's smallest fence jumper, but I am still a jumper.
And the result (after six years):
When all of this shit with Archie's leg turned out to be months longer and days harder than I anticipated, I decided to get another tattoo. For the non-inked, this decision was like... going on an angsty Target shopping spree.