“Why does everyone hate me?”, and other questions often-asked by young, suburban female rejects.

 

I packed up a to-go container of assorted cheeses and hiked them  to my tattoo artist’s studio, across the street. I’ve recently had a large amount of cover-up  work done on my chest and upper-left arm, and he had a lot to work over. The last time I was there, I accidentally tipped %15 in the Square app because that’s my default at coffee shoppes. Now, there is quite a large difference to me between the intimacy of 3 minutes of conversation during the preparation of my exceptionally large Latte(which I genuinely adore you for making, don’t get it twisted) and  the almost ritualistic injection of ink into my epidermis, painfully(sometimes for both the artist as well as the canvas) over a span of hours. Fifteen percent isn’t enough, so.. I could bring more cash back later:That is a totally plausible  solution. Unfortunately, I am myself, so that’s too anxiety-producing and awkward  so the answer is cheese. Cheese and me overtipping next time.

You spend  several hours taking an idea out out of your mind and pounding it into my chest, and I’ll feed you. You give me solutions, I’ll edit your paper. Watch my cat and I’ll take you to shop when you don’t want to but have to. Just know that I’ll feel uncomfortable when you acknowledge that’s what I’m doing, because It feels so odd in this sterile place.

I often feel American culture is too sterilized: we’re so impersonal, and I’m not an impersonal human. I’m intimate and small in a world filled with open-plan , overhead-lit workspaces and florescent bulbs. I refuse to change this.

 

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