The day I turned eighteen, I got my belly button pierced. I was skinny and cute, and who doesn't want a piece of metal shoved in their belly button? Well, obviously, my body. Within a few months my body had rejected the piercing, and I was slowly forming a granuloma underneath the bedazzled jewel that hung from belly button. So, out with the piercing and in with the scarred belly button.
Since I was young and wild, and assumed my parents didn't know anything, I waited until I turned twenty-one and went for the tattoo. First, we stopped at Ruby Tuesdays and I bought a strawberry daquiri (because when you first turn twenty-one you MUST get an alcoholic beverage at every restaurant. period.) and drank it like a champ. Then, I dragged myself to the tattoo parlor, ironically named Good, Clean, Fun. Ha! Now, how I made it through getting the tattoo, I will never know. I'm quite possibly the biggest scaredy-cat there is, and somehow I managed to sit in a chair and let someone use a needle to apply ink to my lower back for two hours. P.S. Wedding Crashers had not been made at this point. Save your lame bulls-eye jokes.