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A few weeks ago, I got thinking about tattoos and how I’ve traditionally responded to the question, “Any tattoos?” with an emphatic, “No! Definitely not!”

I decided a long time ago that I could never get a tattoo. Tattoos are forever. That Chinese symbol that looks so cool now may feel pretty retarded a few years down the road. You may have thought you would always love the cartoon drawing of Winnie the Pooh’s head stuck in a honey jar, but you have to get sick of it at some point. I can’t even justify the staying power of the almighty tramp stamp. Sure, it would be nice to have a cute little picture for my man to look at while he’s boning me, but what’s in it for me?

Beyond the aforementioned factors that most people would consider when deciding on a tattoo (counter-culture trends, personal staying power, and critical audience), I have a fourth one to think about: resulting self-mutilation. I look pretty normal to most people, but I’m actually a neurotic perfectionist. When I decide something isn’t exactly the way I want it, I’m going to mess with it until I make it right or get tired trying. That’s why I pop zits, pick scabs, hand-wash my car, and repaint my toenails almost daily. I’m not anal about everything, but I guess it would be safe to say I’m really anal about how things look. Especially my things.

So, if I woke up one day and decided I didn’t want my tattoo anymore, there’s not much stopping me from trying to slice it off with a knife, or maybe file my skin down to a bloody mess. Sure, it would leave a scar, but I’m not going to think about that. I’m going to think about how nothing possibly could be better than getting this horrible abomination off my skin right now, this minute.

But let’s say I don’t have an affinity for wounding myself and let’s also pretend that I’m seriously considering a new tattoo. What would I get? I would need to get something that really defines me. Something that has always been and won’t change. Although it would be a kind gesture to write “Gustavo” in cursive on the sparse real estate above my right nipple, that doesn’t fit my parameters. Same goes for writing “Austin” in old-English letters across my stomach.

No, the only thing that has been truly constant in my life is writing. From the moment I learned how to do it and up until the very seconds that words are appearing on this page, I’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months, years writing random crap for personal enjoyment. Most of my jobs have involved writing in some form or another, and when they didn’t, I’d take a break and write anyway.

Even though I hate pigeon-holing myself and labeling myself as one thing, I’ve mustered up the courage to finally admit to myself after 25 years that I am a writer and that’s probably not going to change. I may change jobs, fields, cultures, or even dimensions. But when they lock me in that rotting asylum, they better toss in some pens and paper before they throw away the key.

Bear in mind, I don’t claim to be a particularly good writer. The only way I can really tell is by what my intended audience thinks. I guess some “writers” would think of that as whoring so-called talent or selling out, but even more than writing, I enjoy having basic human luxuries like food to eat and a roof to sleep under. The money people pay for me to write gets me those things, so I’m not ashamed to admit that I care what they think.

So that deserves a tattoo, right? What kind of picture would scream, “Writing”? I thought about a quill, some ink, and a blank page. Blank, because I won’t always be able to commit to what I write or how I’ll do it. When you write something that seemed poignant and thoughtful at the time, but turns out to be meaningless drivel, you can throw it away or at least bury it for a long time. Although the blank page feels somewhat meaningful, it’s also pretty boring. And I could see how someone looking at it would think, “So… a blank page? Um… interesting.” I would probably start to get bored looking at it too and then we’re back to the self-mutilation thing again, even though I said I wasn’t going to do that.

I could write a short meaningful quote, like “Know thyself.” (Emerson) But that’s too pompous, even for me. Look at me, I read some shit by some dead guy who also liked to write but was actually good at it and now his words are on my arm. Lame.

So yeah, this idea is a work in progress. I don’t think I’ll get ink done for awhile, or maybe at all. By the time I can think of something that really suits me, I’ll probably be too old for it to matter, and wherever I put it won’t be any part of me that the general public wants to see anyway.