I have a lot of ink. I have a tiny bit of disposable income, even after injections and car payments and "paying myself", and a supportive hubs who thinks tats are hot. At this point in my inked life, it's not a big thing for me to think on a random night downtown, "Hey, let's go see if the Tattooer is free."
Normally, I have things already percolating in my head. General ideas. Where I'm going with a certain body part. I can easily tell you the next ten tattoos I'd like to get*, but I've got time.
So while downtown on NYE, we visited my little tattoo shop and I scheduled for the next day.
It's been sitting on my brain since Archie was shunted into partial retirement, this tattoo of a jumping horse on my left leg. And how much it hurts. And so I got "verboten", which is German for forbidden. Granted I'm not forbidden from jumping other horses (which is what a barn friend immediately said), the tattoo isn't other horses. The tattoo was my declaration that I would keep jumping the Archer even after I fell off and broke my ass.
|Still a bit gooey.|
|When you can't wear tall boots and breeches. I wish breeches were as awesome as these workout capris.|
|Could I have left my socks off for a little longer before taking awkward under-the-desk photos? Sure. But I didn't!|
*In no particular order: octopus on right ribcage to compliment seahorse on left, peacock feather on left calf, day of the dead owl somewhere, piertotum locomotor somewhere, a realistic heart with "betty jean" on it, profiles of my best bitches (left thigh?), a cameo with a cockatiel on my right calf (rip, gray ghost), finishing my sleeve, blue/gray roses (filler on left leg?), and maybe a creepy skeletal pony to compliment the skeletal owl.