>>212883280
Ah, Blood Meridian. Monsieur, that novel is the sark and chaparral of literature, the filament whereon rode the remuda of highbrow, corraled out of some destitute hacienda upon the arroya, quirting and splurting with main and with pyrolatrous coagulate of lobated grandiloquence. Our eyes rode over the pages, monsieur, of that slatribed azotea like Argonauts of suttee, juzgados of swole, bights and systoles of walleyed and tyrolean and carbolic and tectite and scurvid and querent and creosote and scapular malpais and shellalagh. We scalped, monsieur, the gantlet of its esker and led our naked bodies into the rebozos of its mennonite and siliceous fauna, wallowing in the jasper and the carnelian like Archimandrites, teamsters, combers of cassinette scoria, centroids of holothurian chancre, with pizzles of enfiladed indigo panic grass in the saltbush of our vigas, true commodores of the written page, rebuses, monsieur, we were the mygale spiders too and the devonian and debouched pulque that settled on the frizzen studebakers, listening the wolves howling in the desert while we saw The Judge rise out of a thicket of corbelled arches, whinstone, cairn, cholla, lemurs, femurs, leantos, moonblanched nacre, uncottered fistulas of groaning osnaburg and kelp, isomers of fluepipe and halms awap of griddle, guisado, pelancillo.

>>212096112
Ah, Blood Meridian. Monsieur, that novel is the sark and chaparral of literature, the filament whereon rode the remuda of highbrow, corraled out of some destitute hacienda upon the arroya, quirting and splurting with main and with pyrolatrous coagulate of lobated grandiloquence. Our eyes rode over the pages, monsieur, of that slatribed azotea like Argonauts of suttee, juzgados of swole, bights and systoles of walleyed and tyrolean and carbolic and tectite and scurvid and querent and creosote and scapular malpais and shellalagh. We scalped, monsieur, the gantlet of its esker and led our naked bodies into the rebozos of its mennonite and siliceous fauna, wallowing in the jasper and the carnelian like Archimandrites, teamsters, combers of cassinette scoria, centroids of holothurian chancre, with pizzles of enfiladed indigo panic grass in the saltbush of our vigas, true commodores of the written page, rebuses, monsieur, we were the mygale spiders too and the devonian and debouched pulque that settled on the frizzen studebakers, listening the wolves howling in the desert while we saw The Judge rise out of a thicket of corbelled arches, whinstone, cairn, cholla, lemurs, femurs, leantos, moonblanched nacre, uncottered fistulas of groaning osnaburg and kelp, isomers of fluepipe and halms awap of griddle, guisado, pelancillo.

>>211609647
>incels hating tattoos
>tattoos
>ever

A tattoo is just another way of saying, "I am a shallow, vapid attention-whore" without actually having to say it. If your tattoo serves as a "memory" of the deceased, you're only causing yourself anguish. Memories were meant to fade. The brain has evolved that way, for a reason. If your tattoo expresses an opinion, then know that an opinion should only be expressed (a) from the mind (b) from the heart or (c) not at all.

Adding to that, people who have their body degraded with tattoos are far more willing to have their body degraded in other ways. After all, "I've come this far. Why not experiment a little-further?" Such people will turn to recreational drug use and, in the more extreme cases, steal from family, friends and strangers alike to feed their disgusting, utterly selfish habit.

Tattooed people are the scum of the fucking Earth.
>tl;dr: People get tattoos because they've never learned the fine art of shutting the fuck up.