I got the bear tattoo when I was 19. I’d been planning it since I was seventeen, and planning on getting it when I was 18, but drugs alcohol and money demanded I waited.

When I was 19, I got the bear.

I went to a dinky little tattoo studio with a snobby tattoo artist who made fun of me for needing a break two hours in. He did fucking beautiful work.

It’s not a scary bear tattoo. It used to be bigger. Or like, I used to be smaller, and it looked huger on my back. Now it’s a little stretched and my back is a wider expanse of curved edges and sobriety. The bear sits more on my shoulder than behind it, and if I pull my arm forward I can see its little nose peeking over, hello! I’m a bear I’m a bear I’m a bearr!

My mom used to do this thing when we saw a dog. She loved dogs, just not having them. But when we saw a dog, especially if it was trotting along, in time with the trot she’d say, “I’m a puppy I’m a puppy I’m a puppy!”

Maybe I’m explaining this wrong. It was freaking hilarious.

I wanna start writing again.