Throughout my life, two things have been certain.
The first is that one day, somehow, I will die.
The second is that if I ever got a tattoo, the first would be at the hands of my mother.
Despite being an artist herself, she has never seen the human body as a suitable canvas.
So it was with 24 years of accumulated trepidation that I found myself lying on my back with my t-shirt off and multiple inky stab wounds in my torso in San Diego on Thursday night.
There is now an angry goat below my right nipple, and he’s going to be there a while, feeding on the lush pasture that is my abundant chest hair.
No kidding, I goat a tattoo.
I have shown Goat to pretty much everyone I have met in the days since going under the needle (four days partying in San Diego equals plenty of witnesses and new friends) in an effort to prepare myself for your reaction when you inevitably find out.
It hasn’t worked; literally everyone has laughed and high-fived me, and I have a feeling you’ll do a better job at containing your excitement.
So I have decided to man up, and from behind a keyboard 12,000 kilometres away, safe in the knowledge we probably won’t actually see each other for another year, confess to you that I now have a tattoo. You raised me a brave man.
To help you come to terms with having a delinquent, inked up son, I want to share with you the story of how the decision came about and the deep symbolic meaning behind the resulting tattoo…
I got drunk with some friends and was like, huh that goat is pretty adorable.
And now it is on me. Forever.