Tramp Stamp Quotes

Yes you're getting your tattoo." I threw my arms around Dad's neck. "Thank you!" "Hey," Mom said. "I'm the one who had to persuade him it wasn't turning his little girl into a streetwalker." "I never said that," Dad said. "No?" I said. "Cool. Cause I've decided to skip the paw print. I'm thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says 'Hot in Here.' No wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys

Tramp stamp or get the fuck out.

2. Goth girls. Streaked purple and black hair, tattoos, a sexy little tramp stamp on the lower back, navel rings, tongue studs… nipple rings… ripped fishnets and high heels, dark clothes and dark moods. Makes me want to peel it all off and find the soft spots underneath, the sweetness at the center… mmmm.

For someone who did a lot of yoga and had a peace sign tramp stamp on her lower back, she sure could be a bitch.

Tramp stamp. A tattoo in the center of a woman's lower back. Also referred to as a "California bumper sticker." The germans refer to this as "arschgeweih," which translates as "ass antler." Bravo!

If you fall asleep here you will wake up with a dolphin tramp stamp. I promise you that.

She spoke with all the authority vested in her by her flea-market prayer beads and her lotus-flower tramp stamp.

With how you were reacting to that glamour, I'll have to keep an eye on you. Otherwise the next time I see you, you'll probably have a Doctor Who tramp stamp. For one awkward second, I realized that the only way Suzume could possibly look hotter to me was if she had a tattoo of the TARDIS on the middle of her lower back. I was profoundly grateful in that moment that the kitsune were unable to read minds.

Don’t make me tattoo your ass before sending you off. Because I’ll do it. Big ol’ tramp stamp in Comic Sans that says ‘Tristan Wuz Here’ with an arrow pointing down.” I snorted. “Oh my god, that’s heinous. I don’t know where to even begin. Comic Sans? Surely you jest. Do you know who you’re talking to?” “Not only that, but I’ll bribe the tattoo artist extra to make sure it’s a little off center and the word ‘here’ is spelled h-e-a-r just for good measure.” “Fuck you. Now I’m going to develop a tic just thinking about it.

He had a Batman tramp stamp, for fuck’s sake. There was no quicker way of announcing one’s man-child status than that.

I looked so preppy you'd guess my tramp stamp was a monogram

Pearl Jam's not my favorite, but it's good, and I hate that Levi likes good music. I need him to love Dave Matthews Band. To stan the Insane Clown Posse. To have a Nickelback tramp stamp.

Oz suddenly looked very guilty. "About that. Um, that's because I marked you last night." My smile froze on my cheeks, making my face ache. "What?" He suddenly found the half-eaten pancakes on his plate fascinating. "While you were sleeping on the couch, I rolled you over and..." The blood left my face. "What exactly does marking someone entail?" "Nothing so bad. I just bit your back." "You bit me?" "Yeah. I injected some venom into your bloodstream that would make you feel better around me. I like holding your hand but I didn't think it was very practical." I lifted my shirt, pulled down my pants, and almost fell over. My lower back looked...it looked..."You gave me a festering tramp stamp?" I shrieked. "You don't think it's cute?

Was that a tattoo I saw on your back?” He asked. “None of your business.” “I just didn’t peg you for the tramp stamp type.” “It’s not a tramp stamp. It’s my F-holes,” I corrected. His eyes had widened before he let out a long, deep laugh. “Jesus, Henley.” “For a violin, you A-hole.” I turned around, raising my shirt high enough on my lower back to reveal two curved lines on either side of my spine. I jumped when the pad of his finger ran over the design leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Wow,” he mumbled, and I turned back around to face him, letting the hem of my shirt fall from my hands. “What? You think it’s stupid.” “No… no. I think that’s the sexiest tattoo I’ve ever seen. How often does someone get to finger your strings?

Here is the first guest, a young woman in a short blue dress. Her face is a trifle on the vacant side but she’s got a knockout bod. Somewhere inside that dress, Hodges knows, there will be the sort of tattoo now referred to as a tramp-stamp. Maybe two or three. The men in the audience whistle and stomp their feet. The women in the audience applaud more gently. Some roll their eyes. This is the kind of woman you don’t like to catch your husband staring at.

So began my love affair with books. Years later, as a college student, I remember having a choice between a few slices of pizza that would have held me over for a day or a copy of On the Road. I bought the book. I would have forgotten what the pizza tasted like, but I still remember Kerouac. The world was mine for the reading. I traveled with my books. I was there on a tramp steamer in the North Atlantic with the Hardy Boys, piecing together an unsolvable crime. I rode into the Valley of Death with the six hundred and I stood at the graves of Uncas and Cora and listened to the mournful song of the Lenni Linape. Although I braved a frozen death at Valley Forge and felt the spin of a hundred bullets at Shiloh, I was never afraid. I was there as much as you are where you are, right this second. I smelled the gunsmoke and tasted the frost. And it was good to be there. No one could harm me there. No one could punch me, slap me, call me stupid, or pretend I wasn’t in the room. The other kids raced through books so they could get the completion stamp on their library card. I didn’t care about that stupid completion stamp. I didn’t want to race through books. I wanted books to walk slowly through me, stop, and touch my brain and my memory. If a book couldn’t do that, it probably wasn’t a very good book. Besides, it isn’t how much you read, it’s what you read. What I learned from books, from young Ben Franklin’s anger at his brother to Anne Frank’s longing for the way her life used to be, was that I wasn’t alone in my pain. All that caused me such anguish affected others, too, and that connected me to them and that connected me to my books. I loved everything about books. I loved that odd sensation of turning the final page, realizing the story had ended, and feeling that I was saying a last goodbye to a new friend.

Conny and I stood in line, along with other people, outside Checkpoint Charlie, the gate for foreigners into East Berlin. Many of those in line were Dutch, and I saw they were being passed without difficulty. Everything seemed routine: Hand your passport to a guard, walk down the line, and receive your passport back with a stamp that allowed you to spend the one day in East Berlin. I hoped it would be as easy for us when it was our turn to be checked. Finally we were in front of the window. The guard looked at our passports, looked in a book and then turned and said something to another man behind him. “Is there a problem?” I asked the man. He turned and gave me a stern look. “Come with

You knew that the women had tramp-stamps and you know this man is hung like a horse and shoots sperm more powerful than a locomotive and faster than a speeding bullet;

But he stood there, his eyes riveted on that tattoo. She looked over her shoulder again. “It’s called a tramp stamp,” she said. “I got it when I was fifteen, to be cool.” “I know what it’s called. I just can’t make out what it is.” “It’s vines in the shape of my name, and I’m not showing you any more of it. Let’s get this show on the road, huh?” “Right,” he said, going off to his toolbox.

You guys had a lot of fun last night, didn’t you?” He chuckles. I look over my shoulder and flush at all the ink that I never did wash off. I haven’t been home long enough. “We were trying out some designs,” I stumble to say. “Umm hmm,” he hums. “Sure you were.” He laughs, and a grin tugs at my lips. “The tramp stamp is pretty creative.” I haven’t even seen that one yet. “What does it say?” I look back over my shoulder. He points to a mirror behind me, and I go stand in front of it and look over my shoulder. I blush like crazy when I see that he’s written, Pete’s girl in a gothic script with squiggly flowers and vines draping down below the waist of my jeans.

We were probably drugged," Lauren said, running her hands over the walls again. "You'd know about that," said Esmee. Lauren wheeled round. "What's that supposed to mean?" Esmee waved her hands at Lauren. "You look like you've done a few peace pipes in your time. Nice tattoo by the way." Lauren's fingers stroked the black treble clef tattoo on the inside of her left arm. "I like music." "Every potential employer's nightmare, a girl with a tramp stamp and an attitude.

I even miraculously avoided getting a tramp stamp.

But every now and then, I felt the urge to buy a jar of Manic Panic and follow my tramp stamp wherever it might lead.

Nobody wants to be judged on their twenty-year-old tramp stamp as they lean over to slap their eight-year-old daughter who’s wearing a shirt that says JAILBAIT.

I’m tired of people acting like they are better than McDonald’s. You may’ve never set foot in a McDonald’s, but you have your own McDonald’s. Maybe instead of buying a Big Mac, you read US Weekly. That’s just a different type of McDonald’s. It’s just served up a little differently. Maybe your McDonald’s is telling yourself your Starbucks Frappuccino is not a milkshake, or maybe you watch those Real-Housewives-of-some-large-city shows. It’s all McDonald’s. It’s McDonald’s of the soul: momentary pleasure followed by incredible guilt, eventually leading to cancer. We all have our own McDonald’s. It may take me a decade to digest my Quarter Pounder with Cheese, but that tramp stamp is forever. In a way, it’s all McDonald’s out there in our society.

You’re getting your tattoo.” I threw my arms around Dad’s neck. “Thank you!” “Hey,” Mom said. “I’m the one who had to persuade him it wasn’t going to turn his little girl into a streetwalker.” “I never said that,” Dad said. “No?” I said. “Cool. Cause I’ve decided to skip the paw print. I’m thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says ‘Hot in Here.’ No, wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys.” Mom grabbed Dad’s shoulders and steered him away from me. “She’ll get exactly what we agreed on. Now go hang out in a guy store and we’ll call when we’re done.

You’re getting your tattoo.” I threw my arms around Dad’s neck. “Thank you!” “Hey,” Mom said. “I’m the one who had to persuade him it wasn’t going to turn his little girl into a streetwalker.” “I never said that,” Dad said. “No?” I said. “Cool. Cause I’ve decided to skip the paw print. I’m thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says ‘Hot in Here.’ No, wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys.” Mom grabbed Dad’s shoulders and steered him away from me. “She’ll get exactly what we agreed on. Now go hang out in a guy store and we’ll call when we’re done.” “This is so cool,” I said loudly as Dad walked away. “Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot?” “He’s a she,” Mom said. “Is she hot? Cause I’m still young, you know. My sexual identity isn’t fully formed.” “Your father can’t hear you anymore, Maya.” Mom sighed. “Poor guy. Why can’t you be a normal teenage daughter who’d sooner die than say the words ‘sexual identity’ in front of him?” “You guys raised me right. You should be proud.

Without exception they answered him curtly in the negative, without question or remark. They had no work for such as he. He might be very hungry, but it was doubtless his own fault, and in any case there were charities, breakfast missions and what not, for wretches of his stamp. If their faces expressed any thought of him at all, the tramp concluded that it took that form.