Tattoos, Writing and the Cleansing Power of Pain

THE CULT OF KILE

I like tattoos.

Strike that. I love tattoos.

I am pretty sure I first wanted a tattoo when I was eight or nine. I always thought they were the pinnacle of bad-ass. Remember the temporary tattoos that you could get from the quarter prize machines that they have in front of grocery stores? I loved those. I’d plaster myself with those whenever I could get them, always feeling kind of bummed out when they eventually faded, leaving nothing but my pale, scrawny arms behind.

See, I am what you’d call a slight man. Slender, if you’re nasty. I’ve never been very muscular. Sort-of athletic, but not really. Enough to slightly embarass myself, you know? Smart? Please, who do you think you are talking to? I wrote a story about a man having sex with a table. You think any Johnny Dumbass can do that?

Old Man Kile is bitching again. Old Man Kile is bitching…

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