I have a tattoo. Two, actually, but only one is visible most of the time. He's on the inside of my left wrist, and he's about the size of a nickel. He's nothing fancy, just there to amuse me.
This is Doug. He's a dung beetle. I could say all sorts of pithy things about life being akin to a giant ball of crap that we have to roll around, and if you're happy with your crap then you win at life, or about how it's the ancient Egyptian ideogram for creation or beginning... but truth is, I just like dung beetles. I think they're funny and charming.
I teach children. I don't wear a watch. The children see my tattoo.
At least twice a week, I am asked by a child (interrupted mid-sentence, usually) "WHY DO YOU HAVE A BUG TATTOO?"
I usually just reply "I like bugs." It is true.
What amuses me about this little exchange is that they always look faintly disappointed in my answer, like they were expecting some elaborate story. Part of me wants to supply that story.
"I was raised by beetles. This is a portrait of my grandmother."
"I was living in the jungles of the Congo, and a beetle crawled under my skin and lived there for a while. One day, he left. I missed him, so I tattooed his image there to remember him."
"I am actually a superhero, and this is my identification mark so other superheroes can recognize me when I'm not in my uniform."
"What tattoo? I don't have a tattoo. I have no idea what you're talking about."
Just for kicks, here's my other tattoo. His name is Ogdred. He's on my heel.
Five points if you can identify his source art.