When you live in Southern Indiana, having tattoos and piercings is the equivalent of wearing a bright red “A” on your chest everywhere you go.

People stare at you like you’re the only carrier for some deadly disease. If they accidentally brush your arm, they scream and fall to their knees, yelling something about their skin burning off of their bones.

It’s one of life’s cruel little humors when you encounter people who decide they just have to tell you what they think about the way you look.

“Do those piercings hurt?”

Yes, they are excruciatingly painful all of the time. I like the pain. It reminds me of my blackened heart and soul.

Or, “You could be so much prettier without those holes in your body.”

My response? I don’t think I’m pretty.

Pretty people don’t desecrate their bodies and defile their appearance. I am obviously just an ugly person inside and out.

Or I mention that just by talking to me they might catch the evil spirit inside of me that urged me to put ink and metal into my skin. That usually shuts their nosy, obnoxious mouths in seconds.

Sometimes I get really creative. I say things like:

“I’m schizophrenic. The voices told me to do it.”

“The bloodthirsty cult I’m in said I had to or I’d be kicked out.”

“I fell face first into a tackle box.”

I’m usually taken pretty seriously with these responses.

The vision of these things alone will creep out the person so much that the conversation is ended faster than I can say “I’m actually a vampire. I want to suck your blood.”

Occasionally, I’m not feeling up to my usual sarcasm, and so I will say things like, “It’s self-expression. This is a way that I express my creativity and originality.”

That really gets them, because most people in this part of Indiana express themselves by the beer they drink or the size of their mudding tires.

Even worse, when other people who have tattoos and piercings see that I have them as well, they automatically assume that that makes us friends.

They will start a conversation with, “Your tattoos are so cool. Want to see mine?” No, I do not want to see yours. I did not get mine to show them off, or for you to tell me the story behind yours.

Actually, I’d rather rip my piercings and tattoos out of my skin with rusty pliers than sit here and listen to your story about your boyfriend who broke up with you, your dog that died, the ukulele that your father gave you when you won the spelling bee or the time you ripped your pants climbing that fence to roll in the mud with some hogs.

I. Don’t. Care.

So here’s a tip to all you close-minded people who are scared senseless by the very thought of a needle entering someone’s skin for a purpose other than to get rid of an illness: just keep your mouth shut, or my cult will don black trench coats and show up at your house in the middle of the night.

And to those who only get tattoos and piercings to make friends, here is my advice to you: Don’t.

Just don’t.