At age 18 during WW2, just out of Navy boot camp in 1943, I felt all grown up with my enormous seaman 2nd class pay of $54 a month! Assigned to the Treasure Island Navy base in San Francisco to await sea duty, I had weekends to enjoy liberty in the great city.
Along with other eager teen sailors, I sought out all the booze and girls San Francisco offered. However, I never was stupidly drunk enough to get tattoos. Not only because the idea of my skin permanently looking like an outhouse graffiti wall. Also the fear of serious infections from dirty tattoo needles, as happened to many guys at the Navy base.
So, next time the macho impulse hits young you to patronize a tattoo shop, pause and think it over. Consider how those colorful pictures of today on your tight-skinned body will look several decades down the road on a saggy old epidermis and wrinkled stoooopidly clooooless face.