Sitting in bed, too tired to process and file away my thoughts into the overflowing cabinet that is my brain, but not tired enough to drift to sleep. My desktop is crowded with folders, becoming a heavy chain tugging at my slightly obsessive need for organization. And yet I still do nothing but silently protest against the army of folders currently invading my Daisy by Marc Jacobs wallpaper. My father once told me jestingly that he would shave off my skin with a rusty razor if I were to ever get a tattoo, grinning cheekily and somehow laughing at the same time. Funny thing is, I’ve always wanted to tattoo the triforce on my arm to permanently mark and display my perpetual immaturity. And yet the fear of a needle and my father’s wrath have kept me in line with perfect posture and obedience. But now is the day I retaliate and release 7 years of teenage angst. Today, at 2:17 AM, I clear my folders from my desktop and create an agglomerate of folders under a single folder titled “THE folder with more folders.” Today, at 2:18 AM, I reveal my newest tattoo. Oh, did I forget to mention it’s fake?
