Diaries of a Philobat

I once when on a first date with a guy who had a heart tattooed on his calf. Inside of the heart there was a male name, let’s say it was “Johnny”.

I wondered who Johnny was: his deceased father? a former lover? his little brother?. I had the hunch that there was an interesting story behind it, so I asked: “Who is the Johnny from the tattoo?”.

His eyes glistened, he incorporated himself like an excited child and said: “Oh, you are going to love this story! Listen!”

I listened intently. He proceeded to tell me that Johnny was his “enemy” from High School, and in order to bother him “forever”, he decided to tattoo his name inside a heart, an ironic gesture to prove his unrelenting hatred.

I lit up a cigarette to disguise my stunned facial expression. He proceeded to explain: “I hated this guy so much that I know how much it would bother him to see his own name tattooed on my calf, so I did it!”, as I subtly gasped for air in disbelief, he continued: “I would ride the streets of San Francisco on my bike like a maniac, every time I ran into someone who knew Johnny, I would show them the tattoo … everyone was so confused… isn’t it brilliant?

Brilliant to have a heart tattoo with the name of your High School enemy? I asked.

Yes! It’s brilliant! He declared, with an unequivocally proud smile with a dash of sociopathy.

Twenty minutes later, I was performing carefully expressive yawns while commenting it was time for me to go home, it had been “a long and busy day”.

He texted the following day, and I respectfully declined his invitation to meet again.

It’s been more than two years and I still remember this story: the dude, perhaps unbeknownst to him, had SUCH a GOOD POINT: hate is one of the strongest forms of attachment. Those “enemies” we feel compelled to “bother forever” will eventually end up inside our hearts, and under our skin.