I Never Called It That

We're in the grocery store. AB is feeling better so we're playing train. She grabs my shirt and follows while I chant, "Chooo chooo!" I'm a total retard, yes, I know.
Out of the blue she says, "I like your stamp."

The stamp she is referring to is my tattoo. Stamp. Bah!

Ahem. Excuse me darling. This is a tramp stamp.

And this.

And don't forget this one.

This one, too.

Wait, not that one.

My tattoo has a deep meaning. Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Saw this image of the Celtic Tree of Life symbolizing reincarnation, the cycle of life, renewal and all that other bullshit long long before it was trendy. Couldn't get it off my mind for a year. Looked everywhere for a copy of it. Finally had to go back to person who had it hanging in her office. She sent it to me. I then had it emblazened upon my body in two six-hour sessions, the pain numbed only by a band called Boiled In Lead. Never regretted it, but if I had it to do over I'd not do it again.

All that so I could smile secretly when my daughter tells me she likes my stamp.

Fuckin' A.