The dating scene is hard. We can’t all be “funny” or “interesting” or “holding down a steady job.” And even if you somehow manage to convince someone that the blood on your jacket is from when you cut your hand opening cans of food for the homeless, how can you be sure that that person shares your interests?
People have tried inventing solutions to this problem for years. This is why people hang out in groups. If you’re in the emo group and you meet a girl who’s also in the emo group, there’s a good chance both of you can connect over bad poetry. If you’re a jock and you meet another jock, you can safely assume that you both enjoy having sex surrounded by mirrors.
But what happens if your tastes run a little strange? Say, for example, you’re really fond of baby-skeletons. How do you let suitors know that you enjoy getting pregnant and then filming the abortion for your followers on YouTube?
If this is how Superman sees the world, who would want that fucking job?
For starters, you get an insanely creepy tattoo of a baby’s skeleton on your stomach. I guess the next step is buying a lot of belly-shirts and then hitting the clubs. Anthropologists probably love this tattoo because it finally answers the long debated question of whether or not crazy people wear a lot of belly-shirts.
Maybe this tattoo is just a really misguided attempt to get attention away from that birth mark. Or maybe she went to the tattoo shop to get a tattoo of her newborn baby’s face, but then she found out that the only tattoo artist she could afford was “Jimmy Blade” who only tattoos skulls, skeletons, and anarchy signs. But I don’t see an anarchy sign anywhere, so that story doesn’t work.
I think we’re back to the “crazy lady looking for equally crazy guy” theory. Maybe she’s hoping there’s a guy walking around with a tattoo of a baby’s skin on his testicles. Wouldn’t that be a match made in heaven? Talk about winning the game of life.
As ridiculous as the tattoo is, I think she’s found a way to beat the system. She no longer has to sit at bars and hope that one of the guys in the room is crazy enough to appreciate her collection of baby rattles found within 50 yards crime scenes. Now she can just walk into a bar, spin around in a circle a couple times with her stomach exposed, and gauge the overall feeling of the room based on how many beer bottles hit her in the face.
Please don’t email me asking for this lady’s contact information. The “skeleton baby” section of my Rolodex was too full. That Rolodex joke was for my elderly readers.
