I can't think of a better place for this:
http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/aug/11/devastated-by-my-sons-tattooQuote"It's just a tattoo," he says, when the silence goes on so long that we have nearly fallen over the edge of it into a pit of black nothingness. "It's not as if I came home and said I'd got someone pregnant."
It seems to me, unhinged by shock, that this might have been the better option.
His father asks, "Does it hurt?"
"Yes," I say, cutting across this male bonding. "It does. Very much."
For three days, I can't speak to my son. I can hardly bear to look at him. I decide this is rational. The last thing we need, I think, is an explosion of white-hot words that everyone carries around for the rest of their lives, engraved on their hearts. In any case, I'm not even sure what it is I want to say. In my mind's eye I stand there, a bitter old woman with pursed lips wringing my black-gloved hands. He's done the one thing that I've said for years, please don't do this. It would really upset me if you did this. And now it's happened. So there's nothing left to say.
Fucking lunacy, so it at least fits half the requirements of the thread.
I saw that the other day, and I was like, wut?