Quotes About Tattoo

Latto is like 'Lotto,' but my little twist on it. It's good fortune - I got '777' tatted on me. I live this.

I got my very last tattoo after my father died. I'm not getting anymore; otherwise I'll end up like Mike Tyson with a tattoo on my face.

Tattoo on the lower back? Might as well be a bullseye.

The tattoo is just setting below his hp bone. H e l l i s e m p t y a n d a l l t h e d e v i l s a r e h e r e I kiss my way across the words. Kissing away the devils. Kissing away the pain.

This is the guy. Raven. This is the guy that Juanita is looking for. The guy Lagos told him not to mess with. And Hiro has seen him before, outside the entrance to The Black Sun. This is the guy who gave the Snow Crash card to Da5id. The tattoo on his forehead consists of three words, written in block letters: POOR IMPULSE CONTROL.

Loss would forever be etched on the child like a tattoo; it might fade over time, but it would never be erased.

I need to know you believe me when I say I love you. That is all." "I believe everything you say," Tessa said with a smile, her hands creeping doen from his waist to his weapons belt. Her fingers closed on the hilt of the dagger, and she yanked it from the belt, smiling as he looked down at her in surprise. "After all," she said, "you weren't lying about the tattoo of the dragon of Wales, were you?

Most Shadowhunters get their first Marks at twelve. It must have been in your blood." "Maybe. Although I doubt most Shadowhunters get a tattoo of Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on their left shoulder." Jace looked baffled. "You wanted a turtle on your shoulder?" -Jace & Clary, pg. 314-

I believe everything you say," Tessa said with a smile, her hands creeping down from his waist to his weapons belt. Her fingers closed on the hilt of a dagger, and she yanked it from the belt, smiling as he looked down at her in surprise. She kissed his cheek and stepped back. "After all," she said, "you weren't lying about that tattoo of the dragon of Wales, were you?

Cordelia had thought a tattoo would be rather more like their Marks, but it reminded her of something else instead. It was ink, the way books and poems were made of ink, telling a permanent story.

History is a tattoo of a moment in time.

I have this huge lion tattoo embossed on my arm. I was a little worried as to how we would cover it up. But my makeup man covered the tattoo with makeup. It took close to two hours.

I've got Africa stamped on my chest, and I've outlined Nigeria because that's my bloodline.

Of course naked. What's the point otherwise? She's got the most amazing tattoo on her --

It's not that I want to get mar­ried. I ad­mire guys who can com­mit to a tat­too.

and she saw another bit of ink, one she didn't recognize: a sword and a hammer encircled by a snake. She didn't know what it meant, exactly, but it was probably more Nazi white-guy shit, because it was always Nazi white-guy shit.

Let us not neglect the forbidden. Let us not sophisticate ourselves out of the cheap thrill and chill of it: the story told for perversity's sake, and all the better for that; the image created because an artist gets tired of reasons sometimes, and wants to dredge up some picture he's been haunted by, and parade it like a new tattoo. I go with it, readily.

Do you understand?" the figure beside the first speaker demanded. Its voice, unlike that of its companion, was light and breathy—the voice of an excited girl. Every inch of its head had been tattooed with an intricate grid, and at every intersection of horizontal and vertical axes a jeweled pin driven through to the bone. Its tongue was similarly decorated. "Do you even know who we are?" it asked.

Cynthia didn't mind Confederate flags. She'd like to see a law that required every white trash hillbilly to have one tattooed on his or her forehead. You would see them coming that way.

Eleanor peeled back the sleeve of her T-shirt to show off a small helicopter tattoo on her shoulder.

Palpatine laughed without merriment. "What could you possibly have to offer someone like me?" "Just this." She opened the soft shoulder bag to reveal a humanoid infant of less than a standard year in age. The infant's hairless head was stippled with an array of short but still pliant horns, and its entire body had been garishly and ceremonially tattooed in red and black pigments.

He had a tattoo of a bird on his neck done by someone with an ill-formed notion of their appearance.

She suggested that...I should examine what I had been trying to shoot at and punch and kill for so long- whether or not I had, perhaps, denied some more gentle part of my nature, and if so, what had it cost me. And don't get a tattoo for your forehead, she said, smiling. It's entirely unnecessary. As proof, she held her hands in front of her. Wiggled her fingers and smiled. Our being human made us tragic and comic both, she has said; the gods both laughed and wept.

The Peacock Tattoo Emporium's waiting area was a row of kitchen chairs, standing ashtrays, dirty magazines. You could pick the tattoo you wanted from a fat loose-leaf with plastic-covered sample illustrations. "They're both crazy," I told Roberta, looking out the plate glass to make sure my grandmother couldn't see me. "Ma and Grandma. They're just crazy in different ways.