These 2 tattoos are both on my right arm. I got the first (pictured left) in 2014 from my ex who was a tattoo artist. I had wanted the tattoo (of Joan of Arc) for a year prior to meeting him. It's based off of a design by Angelique Houtkamp.
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Today is my birthday. The last year of my 20's. Every birthday, I'm reminded of the beautiful short story, "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros:
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one.
1. My mom took me to my first gay pride march in Madison in the early 90s. The next day, in preschool, I apparently led my peers around marching and chanting, "2-4-6-8, how do you know your kid is straight?!"
Growing up with two family extremes was confusing.
I got my period in fifth grade, and just like that, my breasts were grenades waiting to be set off. I got a set of curves that I had absolutely no idea what to do with. Was it the Italian in me that grew curves? Or was it the American in me—from growing up in a culture of Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, and Lunchables?