Tattoo

It was September 7, 2009 or 9-7-9 or our 29th monthsary. The Goo Goo Dolls told me that I had to bleed to know I’m alive. So to commemorate that day, I decided to feel all the pain my relationship brought me. I got a tattoo.
I had my doubts but I was already sitting on the chair and the tattoo artist—Ming-ming’s hand holding the gun was already only an inch away from my skin. I wanted to say, “Wait!” but the needle touched skin and it was too late. It was either finish it or finish it. There was no choice; the only other option was to go around with an unfinished tattoo, which was no choice at all (of course).
So I let the pain run its course. Well, anyone who went through childbirth would definitely survive it. There was no competition, not even close. But pain is pain and I wanted to feel.
I sat there unmoving, letting the needle run through my skin over and over again; the black ink mixing with my blood. I had to concentrate really hard to recall why I decided to do this to myself. At times I really feel stupid. Everything that has happened is due to the choices I made, so there is no one to blame but me, myself, and I. "When will I ever learn?" is a good question that I have to tattoo in my mind.
After an hour, it was done. I got marked. Like my Cebuano ancestors before me, I too am now a pintados. (Good thing my blood type is O plus; I don’t have to worry about blood donation and such.)
I’m hoping that every time I’ll see this mark on me, I’ll remember that the choices I’ll make could either bring joy or pain. Think twice or a million times over before deciding. But then, maybe I made a wrong move again! How could this mark remind me when it’s at my back? I’d had to look at a mirror to see it. Tsktsktsk!Spring, get a grip! Lest people will see you walking around with your head full of tattoos!