Just another day.

I feel like I need to write today. The tattoo bug has me good again. I really thought I’d decided not to get any major work until I got through some school, but I won this phone at work the other day and it’s a good source of tattoo money. Besides the amount of time that being obsessed with something like that takes, there is the inevitable agitation it gives me with certain elements of society. There is so much stupid nonsense out there that it makes me want to rant, rave, and choke people. Freaking soccer mom’s with husbands with 6-figure incomes who decide that 40 years old is the ideal time to be a “rebel”, and that a tiny ankle tattoo of their zodiac makes them “badass”. Bloody hipsters with ½ the lyrics to their favorite horrid emo band’s most meaningful song tattooed on them in number 10 font the will look like nothing but blurry lines in 3 years. This growing generation of the “rock-star” tattooist, and their insatiable apatite for freaking attention. We can increase the list ad nauseam.

It did all bring about a bit of a moment of clarity recently though. The guy who did my last work, and will likely do my next work is this super low-key dude that doesn’t seem caught up in any kind of race to be the next rock-star tattooist. I was talking to my wife about where I was going to go with this money, and if I’d be able to go visit one of the more well known artists I admire. She asked, “why, don’t you trust Teddy”? That made me really think about how hypocritical I was being about some of this stuff. Instead of being grateful that I know an awesome tattoo artist who welcomes us in to his home, and gives us top notch, completely unique work; I was worried about being able to brag on some silly social networking site that I went to see so and so.

Why is it so often that the thing I want so badly not to want, is the very same thing I want so badly. I have a long history of some really big issues being content. For a long time I thought it was just a simple matter of being a glass half empty kind of guy, and not being a big concern. As I’ve matured a lot in the last few years I’ve realized that it’s something deeper than that. It’s a matter of contentment. My mind always racing towards “the next”, toward something I imagine as better, but is likely just different. The next television, the next tattoo, the next car, the next cool phone, the next cool tattoo artist to meet. Next, next, next, next. For me “new” is something that wears off almost before it happens.