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Silver Fox/Tattooed Dragon Man

Good evening, dear sir.

I first laid eyes upon you a few months ago in the food court of the mall. I had just walked in from the outdoors, as it were, and I stood still for no reason at all other than God telling me to. That’s when you walked past me, probably exiting a restroom. I was wearing my fox ears, of course. I remember you checked your hair right after you strode by, giving me a bit of a double-take. ❤

You have no idea how that made my heart sing. I’ve never received such a wonderful compliment in my own memory. I was elated, to say the least, and walked off to hit up Hot Topic and Torrid.

That moment is basically seared into my memory and sometimes it rises to the surface within me, much like one might imagine Atlantis rising from the watery grave of the ocean. It is the same as if it just happened.

I’m not really sure how long ago that was. Maybe two months? Maybe three? I haven’t thought much about it because I’ve been unwell and trying to focus on getting better. I thought of you this week because when my favorite cat died, I stamped his paw print on a piece of paper and then thought about getting it tattooed on my inner right wrist. I want a constant reminder of my sweet little boy who is, ultimately, gone too soon. He was only 18 and cats can easily live to the mid twenties with exceptionally good pet parenting.

I feel like a failure as a pet parent because of that. His back was hurt from a fall he took. I felt like a failure for not realizing he hurt his back, too. I had adopted a rambunctious pit bull for security purposes and he scared my poor little kitty. Okay, he wasn’t so little… he was sixteen pounds of pure killing potential. He gutted a vole once in one smooth motion like a stroll in the park. I’m quite proud of my little murderer. In fact, the same day I brought him home… November 22nd, 2004, he killed a fly. I remember that clearly because I remember wondering how there was a fly in my apartment in November.

I cried after I dug a shallow grave for Bill. It was all of four hours between the moment he woke me up, unable to get off the ground because of paralysis in his hind leg (left side) and being laid to rest. He woke me up when he kept trying to get up and ended up flopping over onto the floor again and again. I tried to stand him upright manually to no avail. I really tried. A couple times. I became aware of his paralysis chiefly because he didn’t try to bite me after I picked him up. His back has been an issue for almost a decade of his life and he does not tolerate being lifted, no matter how well I try to accommodate said injury, so I knew something was up when I was able to lift him up to my bed without a complaint from him.

I fed him his last treats ever and got a blanket so I could carry him without disturbing his injury further. About the same time he realized how fucked he was in being unable to stand is when I was able to take him in to be put down, for which I am extremely grateful. He only had maybe an hour of panicking over not being able to move. Within four hours of discovery, he was put to rest humanely at Glenwood pet hospital. I remember tears streaming down my face as we went into a room together and an older gentleman telling me he was so sorry for my loss.

This is the first time one of my animals has died of old age and/or health complications, so it’s all new to me. Previously, my cats have been indoor/outdoor cats that, most likely, were ran over or destroyed by a predator of some sort. I had three. Dealer, which was a tabby that was almost all white except for the top of his head and his shoulders. Pounce De Leon, another handsome grey tabby. And Lady, a long-haired brown/grey tabby that got lost when we moved. Or maybe murdered by a psychopath. By the deli man, says God, but then again I’m plagued by what I call “the Loki” as well — liars who will lie about anything and everything for attention. What a blessing. What a curse.

I don’t know much about you, Dragon Man, other than you have plenty of tattoos and at least one piercing. I think it’s really alluring, honestly, because it’s like you’re wearing your personality for the whole world to see it. And, since I know a little about tattoos in general, deep pain from some sort of past. They’re scars you choose to have rather than incidents that happen to scar your skin.

At least, that’s how my brother is, so I extrapolate, I suppose… thinking that all these men covered in ink are delicate and wonderful on the inside if you just let them be themselves. I learned a lot in doing my best to love my brother. You might even know him; his name is Tom. He used to run around a lot more in his 20s. He’s a bit older than me. I can’t remember the exact number of years between us, but it’s more than two. In fact, I think it’s nine but that might be too high. (God says it’s 6 years.)

God tells me that you went to a Cradle of Filth concert in Cleveland once upon a time. Perhaps with a lady named Gretchen? I remember meeting Gretchen there and feeling honored (and humbled) that she’d talk to me just because I was Tom’s little sister. I didn’t like a whole lot of people in those days, but since I love my brother, I loved his friends, too. Without question. Without doubt.

I have no idea what we spoke of anymore or who I saw there. I just remember watching she-devils on stilts prance about the stage, really. I don’t even remember if I was still in high school or not. I think I must have just graduated. I was there with my gaming group. Tabletop role-players. Sucktastic ones, at that.

My parents did this shitty thing where they forced my brothers to take me places with them because I refused to have friends. My peers were awful to me and I decided I was better off without them, generally speaking. (Sorry, peers. You should have been nicer, generally speaking.)

Back then, I wasn’t allowed to do what I wanted with my hair (or anything, really.) My control freak father would say, “Girls should have long hair, that’s how you know it’s a girl.” (In other words, if girls have long hair and boys have short hair, he can daydream about raping them all and not worrying about striking into homosexual territory on accident.) Thus, for a long time, my hair was down to my waist. I often wore it in a braid because it was fucking ANNOYING.

It got chopped off when I was 18 because it was a mess and lice struck me, for once. I never got lice like my younger brother until then. Lice suck, those are bugs on my naughty list. Pain in the ass to get rid of, too. Then, I went even shorter than that when I was about 20. About two inches long all over and I dyed it blue. Blue did not suit me, I discovered, but at least I stuck it to the old man finally. He hated it.

After it was blue, I went orange and pink and purple and teal. I even went a checkerboard pattern of teal and purple. I had some amazing girlfriends at the time, I must say. The Lebows were good to me until I had a bit of a falling out with the oldest one. Apparently, using pink in my hair was an unspoken rule I broke. I didn’t know or I wouldn’t have done it. Her sisters tried to make her see reason, for it was just a little pink… but that did not happen, sadly.

I lost a friend because of that and buying a shirt we both liked before she bought it. I thought after a month, she’d changed her mind, you know? I was wrong… and when I offered to straight up gift it to her, she told me no. And this is why I don’t do friends. I don’t know better, I guess. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the movie) finally taught me that bitches be petty. (Sorry, J. It was fucking petty and you know it. I love you anyway.)

That’s the last time I lived in Erie, was seen in Erie. I disappeared, for all intents and purposes. I moved to St. Louis, Missouri and stayed there. That is, until last fall. I nearly died on a doctor-monitored weight loss diet… because, you know, a skinny waistline is more important than my life. [not]

That doctor is a fucking quack. I hated doctors already, but I was convinced if she was prescribing the diet then she would help me take care of myself. Boy, was I ever wrong. I nearly died, thanks to her. I won’t get into it right now because it’s a long story that, quite frankly, is covered elsewhere in this diary/blog/whatever. Journal, is what I’d call it.

Anyway, God says I’d really like a lady at Ink Assassins for my future tattoos but for some reason, thinking about this paw print, I think about hitting up the mall. I mean, it’s probably going to be overpriced because it’s the mall, but… meh. It’s a dinky paw print, maybe a heart outline, and I’ll want his death date on there I think. I’d put his birth date if I could but I think that’s too much, honestly. I don’t want it to be much bigger than the paw print itself… and I remember when I got the tattoo I already have, that jerk told me he couldn’t get the butterflies too detailed in my daichi (yin-yang symbol.)

I’m a Taoist. It’s a philosophy, not a religion or a belief system… and it describes what I’ve learned as a Native American shaman pretty nicely, so you know… I’m sold. It’s based on a collection of poems attributed to some poet named Laozi or Lao Tzu, which God says you already know so I’ll stop explaining now. Anyway, whenever I read more about The Way, which of course s/he cannot adequately describe, it reminds me of wielding Power. That’s what I was taught to call reiki, anyway.

I discovered that Native American shamanism is a form of reiki maybe two years ago now. Of course, they attribute reiki to be founded by someone in Japan (Makao Usui) some hundred and whatever years ago… so uh… kind of a conflict when you think of Native American shamanism being thousands of years old and all.

I was taught just enough to get myself in trouble, which is how I summoned God one day. I broke his meditation, wouldn’t you know. Man, am I embarrassed. Little ol’ me, screaming into the void of the universe as I died, but not making a peep in the real world. Instead, I’m looking at my 400 calorie intake per day, panicking [at the acid test] silently as I see the eventuality of this reality: I will die if I cannot eat more. I will die if I cannot consume appropriate amounts of fuel. Especially meat, since it contains all essential amino acids needed to live.

Well, I did die. But God decided that he was not going to waste an opportunity here, so he brought me back to life. [cue a phoenix down for me, bro] [ever wonder if chocobos are phoenixes? I do. I think they must be.]

Anyway, the tattoo I put on my left bicep. I totally squirreled away from the topic, as I am wont to do from time to time. I have 13 learning disabilities including ADHD, so please forgive me for being all over the place. It’s a snake holding a daichi in its mouth and the dots are butterflies, but the dude who put it on my arm [Greg, STL INK] said he couldn’t make them any better than what he put on there. In fact, he was going to make them dots as if I didn’t notice he ignored me talking about making them fucking butterflies. There is, like, a reason. [hair flip]

The reason is that butterflies are a symbol of metamorphosis. They are born from struggle. I always felt like I was in a cocoon for the longest time, honestly. Incubating as I figured out how to overcome my learning disabilities. Took me a couple decades, but now I’ve nailed it. I nailed it so hard, I had a six figure income for a while. That is, until I died. I begged this other douche bag that was in love with me to come make me food once a day so I could keep that job but he declined.

What, exactly, is wrong with men these days? [Fuck you, too, Nick.] Sorry, Tattooed man, if that is also your name. I mean this dick bag in England.

Anyway. Yes, I know technically it’s “bag of dicks” you jick. Stop telling me how I’m too dyslexic for you to make sense of it all. You know what? Fuck everything, I’m done. I’m ready to die now. God, can we just get on with the show? kthxbye.

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