20 years old; a little less than 3 months until I turn the coveted “21” years of legal in America. I can’t say that I’m not excited, but I’m not too excited for it either. Turning of age only gives me the chance to go drinking freely at bars and go buy alcohol so I can cook and bake with it. Other than that, it’s nothing else. I will only be growing older and God help me become wiser too. These last few months of being 20 I have been cherishing every moment. Once I add on a year, I will be considered “responsible” and as an “adult.” Who wants that? I guess some do. When I turned 20, I celebrated my birth in a different country, different city, different continent, and with people who I cared the most about. That night was when I realized people who like you will make an effort to be around you. I was working at the Joint Bar that night and I had only been working there for a little over a month. I was graced with a cupcake and a few other sweets from my coworkers and the ones that were knocked off already were shooting some pool and wished me a “happy birthday.” People who I had known for a mere month or so, were so loving to me, I felt liked. Then later on that night, two of my old coworkers at the old job I was at, came into the bar. I was on cloud 9.

20 in Australia was pure and loving. I then went and spent Christmas in New Zealand jumping out of planes, off of bridges, and abseiling down monstrous waterfalls. I then made my way back to the states to ignite a new year in a new city of Philadelphia. First Spring semester at Temple was great. I had so much fun and actually made a few friends here and there. Then came May and I met a guy. I imagined my first interaction with a guy would be sweet and nice. This one was quite short given the circumstances of time, (moving out of the country). After 3/4 of a wonderful time of being 20, I experienced disappointment that I normally saw in movies or amongst close friends. I promised myself I wouldn’t ever let that happen to me, but it did. The guy blossomed into a womanizer and tried to make the situation seem like it wasn’t a big deal. It was a big deal. Hypothetically speaking, I was a brand new toy and he broke me. I was damaged goods. No more of an antique, but the toy who sits in the dusty, cobwebbed corner of a vintage shop.

Anyways, I have experienced enough of 20. It’s saddening that my last few months of being 20 would end on such a sad and hateful note, but I’m going to make the best of it.

So I sketch. So I paint. So I spend my life’s savings on art supplies. My walls are decorated with canvases. I look up at my wall everyday and just smile. I did that. I drew and painted those canvases. Damn. My body is my canvas too. People say, “why would I tattoo myself? You wouldn’t put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari would you?” I say no, but I ask you, how many times do you take that Ferrari out for a spin? Not many because you’re afraid it’ll get scratched or hit right? You’re living your life in constant fear and that’s not at all healthy. My body is my temple and I decorate the walls of it. I treat my body with the utmost respect. The scars I have on my limbs mark the places I have been, the activities I have done, and the stories behind each one of them are damn good too. I rather have an unique Ferrari than a Ferrari that looks the same as everyone else’s. So far I have only three tattoos and they’re rather small. I love each and every one of them. I don’t care what people say or think of my decisions. I want to show them off every chance I get. In fact I’m thinking about two other ones that I want next. Tattoos express a person. They tell a story. Have you noticed that tattooed people don’t judge people who don’t have any and people who are plain skinned judge those who are colorful? I view tattooed people as open-minded people. They are their own individual and could care less of what you conservative folk think. When this generation is old and wrinkly, we’ll all be sagging in our chairs trying to figure out what that stretched out tattoo used to be back when we were in our 20’s.

Mane

Who am IChang

Addiction

And the thing that irks me the most is when strangers comment on my tattoos. If you like it, just say you like it; don’t ask me what it means or what it stands for. Don’t ask me what the deeper meaning is when I say “there’s more to it.” I don’t know you nor do I trust you. Then people who say they think the tattoo is ugly or they hate it, thanks man, I have it on my skin for the rest of my life. Thanks so much. Your opinion means the world to me, stranger. I experienced that once. A man said that to one of my friends and I instantly criticized him back by saying he should look up the definition of “ugly” and reconsider, considering his situation.

75% of her body is tattooed.

How pretty will you be when you’re old and saggy? At least I’ll be covered in art.