“

A TATTOO! That was totally it, dude. I would totally get a tattoo. That would fix everything. (It did not. Do not do this.) So we wound up at this super-sleazy parlor, the kind that only ever gives cheap, bad tattoos to impulsive young people. And I picked out what I wanted: the word “hope” on my arm. It wasn’t smart or original or cool. But it seemed like a good tattoo for a frightened person. Every time I looked down at my arm, I would receive instructions on what to do.

And yet when it was time for me to sit down in the chair, I got really nervous. This place was sleazy. The needle was going to hurt. This was permanent. I couldn’t make a decision like this on the spur of the moment. My friend looked at me and said I was freaking out for no reason, and she was going to do something that would ensure I could not back out.

So she sat down in the chair in front of me, and she got the same tattoo. I watched her. The whole time, she reminded me of how unforgivable it would be to wimp out now. And I believed her, so when it was time for me to sit down in the chair, I was able to do it. And it really did hurt less than I expected. And there it was. My friend and I had the word “hope” on our forearms, and for the rest of our lives, no matter what happened, we would have some part of us that was the same.