Ink and Sock Tops

As I have mentioned before, Father is the kind of guy who likes to be in charge of things. Whether it be my plans on a Tuesday night, or what color Mother decides to paint her nails, he enjoys being a part of the decision. So you can imagine how upset he was when I came home with a brand new tattoo five months before my eighteenth birthday.

Ok, so in retrospect, I should have at least talked to my parents before getting it, if not waiting until I turned eighteen, but also in retrospect, I do not regret getting it for one second. (if you know me personally, you know the story behind why I do not regret it. If you do not, and REALLY want to know, then feel free to send me an email at lifealmostfactual@gmail.com and I will write you an answer. I don't feel it is the right setting to address such a serious matter in the main body of a post)

Look! It's my tat! If you don't know what it is, it's too hard to
try and explain...

So in between applying vaseline and trying really hard not to pick at the forming scab, I decided that it would be really hard to hide my tattoo, so I would simply tell Father and Mother about it. Now some people would think that this is a terrible idea. And for a while it seemed as though it might have been. I remember the very first thing Father said to me when I told him...

Father: You're kidding..

Me: Nope. Wanna see it?

(probably not the best response. Especially judging by the much yelling that ensued. But I won't waste your time with that.)

When the two weeks of no talking was up, and the month and a half of being grounded had passed, Father told me he had one more condition. When I was in the house I had to keep my tat covered at all times. Crap. This would be harder than it sounds. With the placement of my tat, normal clothes do not cover it. And I was not about to wear long pants all the time. My solution: I would stay in my room. He couldn't control how I dressed in there could he? The entire family was not happy with this solution. They missed seeing my smiling face.

So we had to come up with a new solution. My solution: If they wanted me out of my room, they had to accept all of me. His solution: cover it up and get your butt out here. Mother's solution: appease your dad and it will blow over. I took Mother's advice. But I wasn't about to give up without a fight. So I ended up thinking of all the ways possible to cover it up while being a smart-alec. My personal favorite was a bandaid with gauze.

I'm a freaking genius.

Father didn't like this. But he decided if I was going to be a smart-alec, he would too. Only when he was, I had to live with it. This is what he came up with:

I can't believe I had to do this...

That's right. he made me wear the cut off top to a sock around my ankle any time I left my bedroom for well over a month. Luckily for me, Mother was correct and it did end up blowing over.. But boy did it kill me in the process!