I am moving to india on tuesday. ohmygod. I'm not prepared, I'm not packed. my cat george naps in the crook of my hips, cracked nips. furry tips. blah blah. I just got a new tattoo, and it was basically the weirdest experience ever. the guy that tattooed me was named paco and he was from mexico city and the entire time he talked about sex. 'I'm a sex addict,' he said compulsively at one point, and I'm not entirely sure if he was joking or not. he looked like elliott smith and was quick and talkative and cheerful, talking nonstop. stop. while the needle tapped my back, 'do you want to know all of the italian words for blowjob?' paco is saying loudly over the country music that is blaring, broadcasting, bleeding. my ears are bleeding. the other tattoo artist, heavily tattooed and masculine, was leaping around the room like a hyperactive leprachaun, singing 'I'm a rednecked country woman, yeah yeah...'. bzzzzt needle went. 'you okay, baby?' paco asking. dizzy swirls of darkness.

I'm moving to india on tuesday, and I must pack pack pack. ugggh. I hate packing; I am madly in love with my house, its heaps of gentrified, gentle rooms. to leave it, to lose it... the loss sadly squeezes at my heart. pack pack pack, chip at my heart. I'll post pictures of my tattoo tomorrow, when I buy batteries for my ravenous camera.

until then I remain,

untrue to my name

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