A slightly gory #tattoosday anecdote for y’all: July 2014, while planning my trip home to Brooklyn, @lipstick_vixen_ and I made a visit to my man @phillipwolves for some bangers, space fillers, and momentos. One of which: a little purple turnip for my best friend Verna.
The next evening, my last in Florida, I went on one of the most empowering, beautiful runs of my life. Nighttime in St. Pete, not far from the ocean, singing to myself to the pat of my feet below me. About 10 minutes in, the sidewalk gave way to the massive roots of some nearby trees, and I missed a step while trying to leap over the cracks. Down I went, catching some serious air en route. Though I avoided serious injury, I tore my pants, took some skin off of my hip and palms, and scraped a nice chunk of my day-old tattoo right off of my elbow. There was blood, but my ego hurt more than anything else, so I finished my five miles and cleaned up the wounds when I got home.
Two days later, back in Brooklyn, that chunk got nice and infected. Thanks to @looneystyx for the antibiotics and Mr. Wolves himself for the touchup a few months later, the scar is barely visible and the turnip greens are back to their original glory.
All’s well that ends well, but clearly Florida wouldn’t go down without a fight. That’s cool; I can relate.