A million lifetimes ago (well, actually, six years ago) I got my third tattoo. It was meant to honour the peak Vonnegut phase of my early twenties, but also a truth so poignant that I couldn’t stop thinking about it the second I read it. How embarrassing to be human.
Getting the tattoo hurt like having five periods at the same time (relatable?), but there was something very compelling about literally making these words part of me. There was nothing transcendental about it, as I was a die-hard atheist at the time, but in the light of my recent psilocybin journeys, I wonder about it.
