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I Am Not A Good Person

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The Beginning of my Story
Tattoos have long been seen as flaws on the body, the signs of a delinquent, and a painted on sign saying, “I am not a good person”. For years, my own parents butchered my love for the art. They told me I’d regret each and every one I got. Their words always just went in one ear and out the other. I always told them I’d prove them wrong and the stereotype of tattooed people wrong. I am twenty years old now with seven tattoos on various regions of my body. I have two large tattoos on my left arm, three smaller tattoos on my right arm, one large one on my back, and one small one on my chest. Those are just the ones I already have, by the end of all my glorious tattoo sessions; I hope to have approximately twenty-five to thirty tattoos covering my body. As Johnny Depp once said, “My body is my journal and my tattoos are my story”, that is the motto I live by regarding my present and future tattoos.
It was cold and the air was crisp as I awoke for class at six in the morning on November 24th, 2014. I slowly awoke from my deep sleep while throwing the nearest clothes on and getting my backpack together for math class. I trudged through my house and out to my car like a pig through mud. Looking at my watch, I realized I had only 25 minutes to get to class. I sped out of my driveway like a racehorse out of the gate without hesitation. Cars on the road were bright orange cones I had to pass with quick precision and timing. With three minutes to spare, I
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