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HEY GIRL, IT’S me! You know, me, down here sitting on the small of your back. That’s right, it’s your tramp stamp, and we need to talk.

Ever since you snagged that sweet office job, I’ve been starting to feel like I’m getting a bit neglected back here. No moisturizing balm, no talk of those touch ups I so desperately need to fill my fading tribal lines—it’s like you don’t even care about me anymore!

When you first got me we used to do such fun things together. Remember all those raunchy Facebook photos you took of yourself in your underwear? There I was, the crowning glory of your butt, decorating that backside like only a tramp stamp could. Now you seem more inclined to—dare I say it?—cover me up than show me off.

Now, I know, your mom did cry an awful lot when she first saw me. But who is to say those weren’t tears of happiness, cried to compliment your father’s shouts of joy? Besides, it’s only been six months—I’m sure they’ll call eventually.

Oh, and I heard that new guy you’re dating and all he had to say about “senseless tattoos” being “immature and unattractive,” but who cares what he has to say? If you want my opinion, I think you should drop him and go back to that edgy guy with all the piercings. He loved me, and he appreciated the fact that I was both intricate and cheap. When is he out of jail anyway?

Think of all the good times we’ve had together, like when you used to lay in the sun and expose my still-scabbed surface to the harsh Cancun sun. Or how about when you and that one night stand were doing it doggy-style and he had the fun of using me as a target? You used to say those were the best days of your life.

Listen, lady, you really need to smarten up if you want me to stick around. I’ve seen all those pamphlets for laser ink removal treatments and, frankly, I don’t appreciate it. Who are you kidding? You and I both know you don’t have $3,000 to spend on the dozen sessions it will take to get rid of me for good. If you did, you would have spent a lot more than $30 on a freehand tattoo from a blind man named Buck and maybe gotten something you actually wanted.

Babe, I’m begging you: Let’s try to make this work. We never did come up with a story to explain my supposed “symbolism” to all those chumps with meaningful tattoos. Why don’t we start there? With a made-up meaning attached to my existence, maybe you’ll warm up to me again.

—Jaclyn Lytle