2013 "Such good skin you’ve ruined!" — that’s how my grandmother greeted my very first tattoo. At that moment, I felt like something between a failed taxidermy apprentice and a reckless waster of someone else’s property. Grandpa muttered something under his breath too — I couldn’t catch it all, but the key words were “nettle,” “ass,” and “whipping.” All in all, I got off pretty lightly. I guess my family was just relieved that their 19-year-old kid had crossed the Atlantic twice and come back home — a little dazed, sure, but still in one piece. And if he returned a little more colorful? Well... so be it. Let him parade around. And just like that, back in now-distant 2008, I dipped my toes into tattoo culture — a culture that, without realizing it, I would keep chasing for the next ten years with not just unwavering interest, but a passion that only kept growing. Of course, back then I didn’t know any of that. I just stared at the winged sword inked into my shoul...