Inked.

August 6, 2007. 6:40 PM. I walk into Santa Clarita tattoo with my father.
August 6, 2007. 7:16 PM, and 100$ later, I walk back out of the tattoo shop with a brand new tattoo.

I'd post a picture, but it's covered with plastic right now. It will be until tomorrow morning. I can't swim for two weeks, and I have to care for it with antibacterial soap and lotion. I absolutely adore it. I'll explain it tomorrow, when I post a picture.

As of this moment, I can no longer donate blood. I'll have to answer 'yes' to the tattoo question on the questionnaire sheet the doctor's office has. My faith is branded on my skin. I love it.

My mother doesn't.

My mother hasn't said two words to me since I got home. This is the only thing that worries me (aside from the lingering pain). I compromised with her, set restrictions, dates, and ideas, and let her push me around concerning this '18th birthday present'. She agreed to it once, and ever since she has been cold. When I had finally decided around 6 months into my 18th year. She said to wait. We agreed to 6 months. It's been almost a year. I love her, and I feel as if I've disappointed her, but this is something I've thought and prayed about. I'm sure she'll come around.

It hurt. A lot. Much more than I expected. The tattoo feeling has been described as 'annoying'. It actually felt like the guy was cutting my skin. But I didn't object. I didn't make a single sound. I'm kinda proud of myself. The foot is supposed to be the most painful place to get a tattoo. Tons of nerves. But I did it.

And I love it.