Calf Tattoo Quotes

He is testing his body in the wind, feeling the weight and breadth of it. My heart is a new bird throwing itself against the space he is taking up. There are no long-legged white girls around us, no pale, over-cologned boys snicker-flirting with the bartender. Instead, all around us, there are brown and Black bodies marked with glow paint and tattoos. There are micro-minis and leather short-shorts and calf-length dresses in pleated faux silk atop unshaven legs. There are bodies with breasts, with thights, with scars, with canes; wearing high heels, wearing high tops; large bodies, small bodies, bodies that twirl and shake and fill the room. This is not dancing, but a becoming of winged creatures.

Whether it was by someone volunteering to be an extra in our show, or part of the crew, or someone buying a DVD at a convention, or a superfan who tattooed our characters' faces on her calf, my career has been built fan by fan. I wouldn't trade that relationship, or collection of dolls of myself, for all the money and fame in the world.

It wasn't beautiful people like Celeste who were drawing Jane's eyes, but ordinary people and the beautiful ordinariness of their bodies. A tanned forearm with a tattoo of the sun reaching out across the counter at the service station. The back of an older's man neck in a queue at the supermarket. Calf muscles and collarbones. It was the strangest thing. She was reminder of her father, who years ago had an operation on his sinuses that returned the sense of smell he hadn't realized he'd lost. The simplest smells sent him into rhapsodies of delight. He kept sniffing Jane's mother's neck and saying dreamily, "I'd forgotten your mother's smell! I didn't know I'd forgotten it!

There is a world of difference between city Australia and country Australia. It has nothing to do with wealth or education, nothing to do with Southern Cross tattoos and mullets, nothing to do with politics or income or class. It has everything to do with whether you know how to fix an engine, clean a rifle and birth a calf. Whether you know your neighbours. Whether you have enough foresight and pragmatism to convene a town meeting, throw a barricade up along the main road and strip refugees of their supplies.

Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured. “This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?” The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn’t help but notice, was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn’t wearing a shirt. Randy didn’t say anything. Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn’t have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn’t know if guys wore those or not. “What are you looking at, Butt-face?” Myron said, “Absolutely—and I mean this sincerely—absolutely nothing.” There

I rolled my sweatpants up to half-calf height, thinking, Let’s highlight my strongest zone.

Environmental historian Valeria Fogleman wrote that perhaps the early Christian colonists saw themselves figuratively as the wolves’ prey based on the New Testament’s anecdote of Jesus sending his followers out as sheep among wolves. Their antipathy and fear toward wolves was a physical manifestation of their spiritual protectiveness, she wrote, for “wolves were considered capable of murdering a person’s soul.” Wolves were also viewed through a religious and cultural lens as animals that made pacts with the devil, thereby garnering them the stigma of being full of trickery and evil. Livestock damages may have been the rational argument for clearing wolves from the woods around settlements, but wolves likely also symbolized a potent religious threat in the minds of some early colonists. The Native Americans did not view wolves so negatively, and some even tattooed images of wolves - along with moose, deer, bears, and birds - on their cheeks and arms, according to William Wood, writing about New England in 1634, described the “ravenous howling Wolfe: Whose meagre paunch suckes like a swallowing gulfe” in a passage that imparts the belief that wolves consumed more prey than was necessary. Wood wished that all the wolves of the country could be replaced by bears, but only on the condition that the wolves were banished completely, because he believed wolves hunted and ate black bears. He also lamented that “common devourer,” the wolf, preying upon moose and deer. No doubt, the colonists wanted the bears, moose, and deer for their own meat and hide supplies. Yet Wood also observed the wolves of New England to be different from wolves in other countries. He wrote that they were not known to attack people, and that they did not attack horses or cows but went after pigs, goats, and red calves. The colonists seemed to believe the wolves mistook calves that were more coppery colored for deer, so much so that a red-colored calf sold for much less than a black one.

in my late twenties. I was a receptionist at a multibillion-dollar corporation staffed by the same boring WASPs I had so happily escaped post–high school. I hid my large tattoo on my calf under pants I bought at a thrift store in high school for four dollars that I’d hemmed with duct tape and whose zipper was held in place with a safety pin because I REFUSED to spend any of the little money they paid me on business-casual work clothes. I was depressed as fuck and thought that this was my future. I truly thought that for the rest of my life, I’d be a low- to mid-level employee at some nameless company, never making enough to save for retirement and eating breakroom granola bars for lunch till I died. I’d get drunk with equally miserable friends every night because I was so unhappy with my day. I’d take hangover naps under my desk during my lunch break or

Wild child,” Jade said. I’d figured as much. The 13 tattooed on her calf was a declaration of sovereignty or a cry for attention. It required twelve jurors and one judge to send an original G to the pen. Everybody knows that, though; real criminals and aspiring delinquents alike. She’d forgotten the ½, which meant “half a chance.” It didn’t mean anything except I should keep one eye open and my hand on my wallet.