I went in on Monday for my 3rd Tramp Stamp
torture removal session. Have I said before that shit hurts? Well, that. shit. hurts. This was supposed to mark the half-way point in a worst-case scenerio. Worst-case being 6 sessions being needed to erase the permanent reminder of my idiot college days. Of course, I was hoping for the best-case scenerio, 4 sessions. I asked her opinion about how much it was gonna take. "Oh, I'd say 5." I'm thinking, hell yeah, for once something is gonna come (or in this case, go away) rather easily. "5 total, right?" A completely rhetorical question in my mind because given a 4 - 6 session estimation, there is no possibility for the total to be 8, right? Mmmmm, if you answered yes to that, you'd be way off the fucking mark! "No, 5 more, honey. You've still got some ink left. It might be only 4 but..." I quit listening. I shouldn't really be suprised. I mean, really, they do this for profit, not because they regret my tattoo as much as I do. In fact I supspect they may have sponsored 'Spring Break 2000 Miami'. And what is my choice now, not finish having it removed? Yeah, cuz that'd look even better. I could just say the jack-ass ink-needle weilding terrorist was as drunk as I was and that's why it's just a bloody blur on the small of my back. No, I'm gonna plop down another grand on a completely non-covered procedure (what the fuck is insurance for anyway?). And they know that. I think that's why I saw a smirk and heard her say "gotcha, bitch" on my way out.