
Now I’ve got some tattoos, one of which I’m not overly proud of, but that’s what happens when you end up in a tattoo shop at 4:00 a.m. in Cancun that lets you drink beer while you’re getting inked up. Long story short, at least it’s spelled right. (If Drew did it I would have a giant “FIGI” on my back. Translation: Mexican tattoo artist > Drew in the smarts department.) I put no thought into it and got the tattoo done by a guy whose primary language was definitely not English, and it came out just fine. I may have hepatitis A-K, but it’s spelled right.
There may be the minute possibility that the clown who wrote the article misspelled the word and thus has completely dashed my hopes and dreams for the day. We may never know, but just in case I would like to say, "Mom, you inspere me."
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