Walking down a street at night, probably around 11:30, midnight, with T. Impulsively going into a tattoo parlor, making plans. Suddenly I kept having to rearrange wires, unplugging things, replugging them in different configurations.
A wedding, but it was unclear whose it was, because the minister woman was the only one standing up there. It may have been a demo, an example of how she conducts weddings. She was blonde, had some sort of American accent, was only very slightly overweight, and I hated her. She rushed through everything; talking quickly in televangelist style and not giving the bride and groom any time to respond to anything before she ploughed onward. When she could tell we were all disgusted by the way she conducted herself and the service, she argued: you'll go to a lot more weddings, you'll hear this a hundred more times, don't complain about it not being leisurely. We all left shaking her heads. I wanted to shout to her: why? just get out. this is not your calling or your place. get out.
Jason. His collarbones, his new tattoos.
