Wil reviews Halloween temporary tattoos and finds the void

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There is a group of six eyeballs on my right palm.

I actually don’t have the condition depicted in Stephen King’s disturbing short story “I’m the Door,” but I am reviewing the remaining Halloween-themed tattoos.

I wear about 20 of them on my right forearm. To make them more visible, I shaved my arm at 2:30 a.m. last night, which is why there is a bandage on my right forearm as well.

I don’t think I’ve worn a temporary tattoo in over a decade. I was probably about 6 years old the last time I had one. Even then, I was probably not the person applying them. So setting them up – a straightforward and easy to overthink process – was new to me, and some trial and error was involved. That’s why the cat has no head and it looks like someone bit a piece of candy corn.

A closer look at Wil’s Soft Ink. Photo by Efua Agyare-Kumi

When the Campus opening hours humor editor John Pinto asked me to review temporary tattoos for an article, I expected to sleeve tattoos in the middle of the week and then document the awkward moments and weird looks that followed. generated by ink. But I didn’t put them on until 2:30 am on Sunday morning. As I write this under the constant gaze of the smiling skull on the back of my hand, what I have instead is a strange feeling of sympathetic melancholy.

Halloween has been over a week ago. His reign has come to an end once again, and we wonder once again if that was really a big deal to begin with. Now Christmas is seeping through the veins of the masses, and after Thanksgiving everyone will stop pretending they haven’t noticed its insidious creep. So, how are you.

But on my right forearm, 20 tributes to All Hallows Eve, a tribute to a better, more frightening time that we love to remember but perhaps never existed the way we do. October is over. The leaves have fallen. But the tattoos remain steadfast on my arm, like the last big Halloween attempt to rage against the death of the light.

And although it is a beautiful rage, it is a doomed rage. Thanksgiving is approaching. It’s colder, so my sleeve covers most of my arm. And I’ve washed my hands a few times since this morning, so the cluster of six eyeballs is starting to dissolve into the frightening pallor of my right palm.


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