If you have a tattoo in a visible spot on your body, you obviously want it to be seen by others.  If your tattoo was truly a deep, dark personal message, you would have tattooed it on the underside of your eyelids for only you to see.  If it’s out and on display, you put it there for a reason — to get attention.  My advice is to drop the whole eye-roll and tantrum whenever someone talks about your tattoo, they’re only giving you the attention you sought in the first place.  If you’re not prepared to explain what your tattoo means or why you chose it, pick a tattoo that leaves nothing to the imagination.  I would suggest the word TATTOO in a nice helvetica font.

There’s nothing worse than asking someone about their tattoo to hear “ugh, everyone always asks me that.” If that’s the case, perhaps your tattoo is too abstract.  Sure you could study Picasso’s Guernica on canvas for years and still not fully understand it, but few tattoos are that meaningful and in-depth.  Take a quick moment to explain your tattoo to anyone who asks, you might even make a new friend!  Also, avoid replying with a rehearsed joke about what your tattoo means.  The last thing that your overly complicated tattoo needs is a laugh track.  Instead, spend time rehearsing your thank you to express gratitude for all the people who take an interest in your body-art.

Follow these tips and I assure you that you’ll enjoy a fantastic summer of hassle-free tattoo exhibition.  Until next time, keep your tattoos well moisturized and your shirt off.

As could be expected, I, like yourself have probably been un-friended by a Facebook user or two in one of these ritualistic cleanses.  My, how their lives will must be so much simpler now not having to read my bi-weekly status updates.  Just think of the world changing tasks these digital clutter-free souls can now undertake – what with all their newfound free time.

For whatever reason, a few of these individuals have now seen it fit to re-add me to their Facebook friends list so that I can yet again be part of their digital life.  For this I’m forever grateful but will respectfully decline the offer.  If having a tidy Facebook friends list is one of your life’s priorities, we clearly don’t share the same worldview.

So for this reason I coined the term Facebook Purgatory, it’s my passive-aggressive list of individuals who will forever sit in my “friend requests” list never to be re-added.  I simply couldn’t bear the heartache of being deleted again next summer.

Students of The Secret will tell you if you buy a ticket in hopes of winning the big jackpot the universe will give you back only the hope of winning the jackpot.  In essence you’ll be hoping forever and never winning. Depressing isn’t it? In a 2006 study, 21% of Americans surveyed thought that the lottery was the best way to accumulate several hundreds of thousands of dollars.  Recession-proof thinking.

This morning while cleaning out my desk drawer I found an unscratched lotto ticket.  I must have got it from a friend, stuffed into a birthday or Christmas card from years past.  Curious, I checked the back of the ticket – it had expired just over a month ago.

So there I sat with an unscratched lottery ticket with absolutely no value.  Even if it were the big winner it wouldn’t be worth a penny today.  Should I scratch it?  If I do and find out that I had lost out on a winning ticket I would be upset.  If I don’t scratch it, I’ll be none the wiser but forever wondering what could have been.

With the astronomical odds of winning the lottery it’s clear that people don’t buy tickets with the expectation of winning.  Instead they must purchase them for the sheer joy of thinking what it would be like to be fabulously wealthy.  For the price of a ticket they are purchasing a fantasy, a daydream and an escape.

At that point I realized that the ticket had no value to me because the fantasy was ruined by the knowledge that the unscratched ticket was utterly worthless.  I decided that I would have to leave the ticket somewhere in public for someone else to pick-up and, for just a moment, dream of what they might uncover.

Today, I saw a man in his late 20s, early 30s.  He walked into the mall with such confidence.  His suit was perfectly tailored and his appearance was impeccably manicured.  No detail was missed.  At a glance, this man really had his life together.

I wondered for a moment what it would be like to be him.  I wondered if this image that he put out to the world was a facade or if he was indeed so well put together.  I wondered if his life was always so perfectly appointed.  For a moment I was jealous.

It was then that I realized that I wasn’t the only people watcher focused on this man.  Two younger ladies had followed him into the mall at a cautious distance.  They were trying to get close to him, as if they were trying to read something tattooed to the back of his head without him knowing.  They giggled.  One of the ladies turned to her friend with an expression that read “I knew it.” What did they see? I had to find out.

I quickly tossed what was left of my lunch into the trash and proceeded after him.  Immediately I saw what the girls were looking at.  On the well-appointed gentlemen’s left shoulder there was very out-of-place Post-It® note.  As I got closer I saw some faint writing on the note.

Thankfully he slowed into the line-up at Starbucks and I was able to read the note: “I AM A DIRT BAG.”

The soft-yellow note attached to his grey cotton suit reminded me that most things that look that perfect at first glance usually carry a heavy disclaimer.

This week the elevator works for all floors but the highest level of the building, the 8th floor. Luckily I live on the 5th so I’m able to ride in style.

Now I don’t usually chat with the people in my building but today I was getting my mail and in the close quarters of the mail area I find talking breaks an otherwise very awkward silence.  ”I’m so glad the elevator’s fixed again,” I said to the short, cute 20-something with blonde hair and dark brown eyebrows. “What floor are you on?”

“Ugh, 8.  The only one without service,” she responded.  ”I have to lug my groceries up 8 flights of stairs.” Her pouty lips would probably have most guys offering to help her.

“8 flights? You could probably take the elevator to the 7th floor and just walk up the last flight.” I responded, making the mail area as awkward as having said nothing in the first place.