Steph Not Stephanie

Sometimes (aka now), I get a bit too in my own head about the ongoings in my life. That’s where the blog comes in. I get to vomit out a bunch of words to the hypothetical readership and the vast spaces of the interwebz, control that writing itch (oh good, now I’ve made writing sound like a STI), and quiet the crazy in my head – at least temporarily.

I don’t really want to get into why I’m crazy today, but I will write about other things to get the crazy out. Does that make sense? Probably not, but I’m crazy, so it’s fine.

Here’s something you may or may not know about me: I work at a tattoo shop in Kensington Market once a week. I like tattoos, they are pretty. I’m working on my collection/addiction, with a new idea popping into my head every other day or so (mostly text-based, since I love the look of words on the body, despite objections from the artists).

Since I started getting tattoos 11 years ago, I’ve thought it would be cool to work at a shop. Fast-forward to last summer, when a friend who pierces asked if I could help out on Saturdays. A note about Saturdays at my shop: they are in-fucking-sane. We have a crazy piercing special, and 16-year-olds come from far and wide (read: the 905), the wait can be up to three hours, and we do between 150-200 piercings each and every Saturday.

Some people would be loath to give up their Saturdays in exchange for listening to bitchy teenagers whine about not having any ID (‘Miss, can I show you a picture of my ID? Miss, I came all the way from Hamilton.’) I, for the most part, love it. I love the Market, I love the people who work in the shop, and hilarity ensues at some point every Saturday. I’ve heard teens discuss anatomy with a painful lack of how the human body actually works (no child, a piercing downstairs will not turn you into a super soaker), I’ve listened to many awesome piercing horror stories (don’t get dermals on your hands if you wear skinny jeans), I’ve seen tattoos that should be on this show, and I’ve been witness to so many hilarious misspellings that it almost makes me weep for the future of humanity.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Granted, tongue is a weird word, but nuple? NUPLE??? These are the leaders of tomorrow people, and we are all fucked.

Well, thanks for indulging me, I feel much better and it has everything nothing to do with this glass of wine that magically disappeared beside me.