I'm having one of those days. I'm kind of tired. I'm not having a bad day, necessarily, but just a slow day. I'm going swimming in the creek after school, and then to a party, and tomorrow I'll probably go see a movie with Michael and then go to another party. I don't want to party hard or anything, but I don't mind sitting around a bonfire. It sounds pretty relaxing.

I got a tattoo on Wednesday. My dad told me was going to take me to get one on Friday, but I called him from school and asked him to pick me up and take me to Mother's Grievance. Well, he did. So at one in the afternoon dad and I take off to get tattoos. We're driving along and dad turns to me and says, "It's going to hurt." I said, "I know." He said, "What do you drink?"
We ended up getting trashed. I got one tattoo, he got two. The artist knew we were wasted. He was laughing at us because we were trying to act all cool and collected, and we were falling down. We weren't causing problems so he went ahead and tattooed us. There was no one else in the shop. Dad went to get more booze as I was preparing to get my tattoo. The artist and I (I can't remember his name) totally bonded. I was laying there drunk singing along with Knockin' On Heaven's Door (GNR version) and he was laughing at me and singing, too. I love tattoos. I've already got my next two planned out, and I might get another this weekend.
Then we went to the nearest big city -- 60 miles -- and drove around. He was drunker than I was so I was driving. We were really, really messed up. I think on the way back (we left around 11 pm) I left a trail of vomit 60 miles long. I've never puked drunk but I think I've never been that drunk before. It was the dumbest thing in the world, driving like that, and I've promised myself never to do that again.