Feather Rib Tattoos are My Generation’s Tramp Stamp

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con.

Two months ago, I was very much in a market for a tattoo. Not that I’m not still in the market for one, but there’s nothing quite like the masochist draw of the tattoo parlor when you’re feeling particularly sour and mean, dreaming of needles and blood and permanent self-expression. Unfortunately for my lazy quest in being cooler, I didn’t pull the trigger fast enough to coincide with my hate bender, and in the amount of time I hummed and hawed, dawdled in indecision, my perspective on life changed and my confidence to brand myself with it—which is probably a good thing, because “THERE IS NOTHING” was a strong contender for a lifelong cameo on my forearm. Tattooing while having an existential crisis is like driving while drunk; I don’t recommend it.

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