Journey to the End of Exams| Part 4: T.A.T.U. – Tattooed & Apathetically Tired Undergrad

Today’s post comes from the equally talented and rebellious Emily Fister. I know she tells us her name in the next paragraph, but I’m out to ruin her fun.

For your daily dose of estrogen with a dash of make-a-Conservative-mother-in-law-cringe last name, I’m Emily Fister and this is today’s guest blog post.

Self-expression comes at a cost. Whether it’s a 15-dollar hair dye, or buying (into) an “Activist Kit of Awesome” (thanks, Invisible Children), you gotta find your special snowflake shtick. However, my experience in media studies has told me that the individual is dead. But now that I’m apathetic to both society and could care less about critiquing critiques… whatever, man. I’ve hit my 20-something panic button and have finally fallen victim to the #YOLO train (which really sounds like the cousin to the Ricola commercials, or is that just me?).

Bitty lean-endorsed cough drops

Lately I’ve been going through a rebellious stage that really should have happened at the prime age of angsty 15. But when you’re confined to growing up on a tree farm, the most dramatic a kid can get is running over an Austrian pine with a lawn mower (disclaimer: did it and insta-regretted it). Today, instead of jamming out to Rancid and The Distillers with dreams of graduating from the Good Charlotte fangirl club, I’ve dyed a tiny bit of my hair “wildfire.”

So what’s the next step in this adventurous post-adolescent mental crisis? Apparently, it’s a tattoo pact with an equally apprehensive friend.

All of these entry-level artists were on the annual Jesus Rainbow Fish Tour. (Also, this person is not a true Gwen STEFani fan and thinks that L.A.M.B. is a designer brand for flocks of sheep).

By September, we’re supposed to figure our 21-year old selves out and submit to the stereotypical existential escape. We did the equivalent of a bro hug-esque deal, which is pretty much braiding our hair and trading secrets. (I won’t disclose to you all of my secret female bonding rituals. Sorry, HurlB.) So yeah, it’s pretty serious.

This is what girls really do, Kawaii-edition. (Eating trans fatty chips makes us go blind.)

Partly this misadventure in self-discovery has been inspired by a few events:

Meeting someone with the phrase “S my D” tattooed on the inside of her bottom lip. It wears off in a few months, no one will see it, and there is no D to S. Brilliant (but potentially cruel to gullible plebes).

Preparing to travel halfway across the world, and potentially getting something Asian-inspired on my body. This shows maturity or maybe just perpetuates a colonial ‘tude… Regardless, getting the Petronas Towers on each respective arm, with the connecting bridge across my chest.

Realizing that scars are just wimpy tattoos. Want a real story, man? You gotta pay for pain and individuality. Out of groceries, but want to express your starvation as an artist? Get the Kraft peanut butter bears on your bod. And maybe have them eating PB with bananas on toast. What a great way to appear even more desirable when shedding some skin (new FB DP potential. Already working on my selfie pout pose).

If you have any tattoo suggestions, I’m open to original ideas and/or artwork. Heck, photoshop some crazy image on me and I may pay you back in Internet semi-fame. Thanks, Duck Duck Noose, for jump-starting my PR campaign: Tattoo Fister 2012.

(efister@sarcasticfemail.com)

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