That’s what it will say.
The tattoo I will never get.
I think about it, perhaps more often than someone who will never get a tattoo should.
I cannot even commit to a menu item at a restaurant (I’ll have the pasta. No, wait the pizza. No, wait, the pasta. Hrm. Yes. Pasta. But which kind?), how could I possibly commit to something that will live on my person for the rest of my days? I stare longingly at Hayden Panettiere’s and convince myself that it is perfection. Sexy, simple, hidden, lovely.
Perfection, of course, until we remember that it is SPELLED WRONG. And you know, obviously, that even though my quote of choice is in my language of choice, this would happen to me. Permanently branded with an extra “i.”
You are picturing it now, aren’t you?
Let me hold it close and keep iit here with me.
Fear of commitment. Fear of failure. Fear of my mother just a little bit.
And therefore I remain tattoo-free.
And just watch a lot of New York Ink.