Tattoos

When you have a tattoo, people seem to think they have a right to look at it. Or worse, know what it's about. I cannot tell you how many times I've been standing in line at the grocery store, minding my own business, balancing my organic soy chocolate milk and my vodka when I feel someones cold clamy fingers pulling down the edge of my shirt. It's bizarre. Like, hey, how are you? Your hand is in my top. What the hell is wrong with you and do you plan on buying my drinks? By the way, I'm Sasha. Nice to meet you.
It's like these kids didn't learn basic manners.
Look, okay, I have a tattoo, you have a tattoo, we're brothers on some level, sure, but we aren't that close. You have a coy fish and chinese symbols. You're white. You'll live in this godforsaken town for the rest of your life. I have ambitions, motivations, I aspire to things greater than what are refleced in your rockin' dragon tat.
The point is this: stop touching me.