In college my roommates and I would congregate around the breakfast table, well north of noon, to take inventory of our various UPIs. Not to be confused with UTIs, unidentified party injuries are the bumps and bruises sustained during the previous night’s bacchanalia. Long after short-term memory, reason, and fine motor skills have shut down in the brain, the body soldiers on like a graceless zombie, lumbering through the festivities with little regard for its own well-being. Once dawn breaks and the mind-body connection is reestablished, you’re left to ponder the provenance of the Indiana-shaped bruise covering your shin.
Flowers? The thought of trying to conceal my mistake was somehow more shameful than being permanently inscribed with misspelled words. So I lived with it, figuring no one would even realize the tattoo was misspelled. And no one ever did. The biggest problem I ran into was people mishearing Sisyphus as syphilis when they asked what it said. But something still didn’t feel right. It was better than hiding behind flowers, but it was still a lie of omission.
