The only thing more boring than Rousseau and his dang blame Confessions is being forced to listen to a person explain the meaning behind each of their numerous tattoos. And the only thing more brainmeltingly boring than that is being forced to listen to that same person describe the tattoos they have planned for what little is left of their bare flesh:

“Like I have this Egyptian motif planned where like the left side of my head is going be a sarcophagus and like when I turn my head quickly my face will like resemble Ramses II and my right shin is going to be like a wicked Phoenix rising from the ashes and it’ll like engulf my entire body below the waist and then I’m dedicating my bellybutton hole (I have an innie) to my Auntie Vickie because I used to spend summers with her when I was in junior high and she used to make the best blueberry pancakes ever but then she got ran over by a fire truck no she didn’t die the accident just like left her in a wheelchair and  made her become really shitty about life and like she stopped inviting me over for summer vacation and so I totally miss the old her and her wicked blueberry pancakes so I am getting a stack of buttery blueberry pancakes with faux maple syrup tattooed inside my bellybutton hole as a way of keeping the good memories of the pre-accident version of Auntie Vickie and her blueberry pancakes alive.”