Tattoo SitesSource:- Google.com.pk
TATTOOS LINKED TO SELF-ESTEEM
It's possible that my high school girlfriend feels a sliver of vindication for her Honors Psychology diagnosis of a sixteen-year-old Pat Sullivan: low self-esteem.
Yesterday, Becky "I Really, Really Regret Getting a Tattoo" Pugh of the Telegraph UK, reported on a study by psychologists at Liverpool Hope University that links tattoos with self-esteem, quoting that "tattoos are not just fashion accessories, but are driven by a wide range of factors associated with self-esteem."
The odd little article doesn't give much more information than that. And Pugh's assertion that tattoos are a sign of low self-esteem isn't quoted from the study, so maybe it didn't actually link tattoos with feeling blue.
That said, the more I think about it, tattoos + self-esteem is kind of a no-brainer. Obviously getting tattoos and having tattoos gives something to the owner/wearer. If it didn't, no one would get tattooed. And the same goes for tattoo artists. What I've often found, though, is that the heavily tattooed (not just some sorority girl that got a little "tat" on spring break) tend to have backgrounds with little patches (or long spans) of instability or an upbringing that was less like Leave it Beaver and more like Roseanne -- which isn't to support Pugh's snarky tattoo regret, only to "report" my own findings. (And it doesn't mean that plenty of inked-up individuals didn't have the happiest and best of childhoods!)
But to suggest that people who get tattoos do so simply because of low self-esteem boils down the proverbial tattoo melting pot, with its thousands of years of art, history and craft, to a diluted, watery mess. Kind of a bummer, but if people want to go ahead and diagnose my tattoos, then that means they probably won't ask me "the story" behind them. And that means a better ride on the subway for everyone.
As we continue through a month that is immortalized in rhyme for it's persistent precipitation, I feel the need to discuss Umbrella Etiquette - a "lost art," if you will, in the bustling metropolis of Gotham.
Unless you are wearing a gold buttoned jacket in front of the Ritz-Carlton or you're carrying a bag of Big Berthas behind Tiger Woods, you are, under no circumstances allowed to be wielding one of those gigantor-brellas worthy of a PGA tour. While I appreciate your desire to exist in a bone-dry kineosphere when the weather is inclimate, you're an inconsiderate asshole to the rest of us.
While on the issue of umbrella-circumference, please keep this formula in mind:
Simply put, you don't get to weild an umbrella that has a diamter larger than half your height. Case closed, end of story, no negotiating. I shouldn't be seeing any of you little Hobbits walking around with what is essentially a House and Garden gazebo over your head. The only thing as annoying as catching an umbrella's tine my eye (see Rule #1) is having my lit cigarette crushed into my hand because Toulouse-Lautrec and his Shroud of Unnacountability decided to stop short to answer a phone call (which, it goes without saying, is NEVER a reason to stop walking).
When exiting the subway station, wait until you've reached the sidewalk before opening your umbrella. Its rather unlikely that you're related to a Wicked Witch out West, so a few seconds of moisture isn't going to return you to the soil and loam of the earth. The confined quarters of the staircase is NOT the place to suddenly extend the neurotoxin laced quills of your umbrella like some horrifying, urbanite blowfish.
Upright, you assholes. UPRIGHT! It's bad enough that you swing your arms like some hyperbolized George Jefferson, but when the sun comes out long enough to justify closing your umbrella, I should never find myself the victim of an impromptu sidewalk vasectomy that would make Mengele wince.
The building is under construction, so the sidewalk is now even narrower than usual and it's beneath covered scaffolding. Either close it up or raise it up, Mr. Scoops. Otherwise you're going to find yourself in a close-quarters death-match that will put that Uma/Darryl trailer park scene in Kill Bill to shame. Oh, and I'll be taking more than your one good eye...
Most of the civilized world thinks of us New Yawkers as fast-talking, foul-mouthed, over-caffienated busybodies who wouldn't piss down your throat if your stomach was on fire. Personally, I think most of this assumption is false; there is a camraderie that exists between us Folks of the Five Boroughs. A sense of kindred-consciousness amongst all of us who pay far too much for rent and yet feel like we have to apologize to panhandlers. Snake Plisken might not be on the island yet, but it's a prison in which we're all doing time and these foxholes force us all to believe in a higher power...