Day 7
Hey all, it's me, Rocket. In my waning days of life I want to grab every experience that I can. One of the things I had always dreamed about, but never got was a tattoo. For me, a tattoo represented confidence, strength, dynamism, you know, pretty much all the things I'm not. Today that's gonna change. I had thought alot over the years of what I was gonna get f I ever did get the courage to get inked, but after my diagnosis I knew. There was only one tattoo that meant anything anymore.
I went down to the parlor and rolled up my sleeves. I handed the guy a wad of cash and told him what I wanted. He asked me a bunch of questions about this being my first tattoo and was I sure that this what I wanted. I told him yeah, even if I did regret it, it wouldn't be for long. He kind of looked at me funny, but started anyway.
Strangely I wasn't nervous about the pain or the feelings that were about to come. Dying really puts all that in perspective you know? All that stuff about the pain and the needle feeling good was shit though. It hurt. Some friends had said they liked the feeling that came with the experience. I don't know.. I didn't feel it. The only thing about the pain that I did like was the sense of focus I got, almost a level of clarity. Sort of like concentrating all of my being on controlling the experiences of one place on my person. It was an interesting concept that I felt I should explore more. What the body can feel. What the body can endure. How far can one person push themselves. I intended to find out.
As the artist finished up his work I looked down to see the end result. Three numbers staring back at me in bold black print. 8-21-2008. The day I was supposed to die.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
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