I dig in my purse and hand him it. I feel pale, and faint. He stares at it for what seems like forever, than nods. “You know what you want?” “... do, yes.” “Good, he’ll do it in a short bit.” I look to where the burly man points and see a young man working on someone else. I nod again, and sit down. I pick up one of the many tattoo books, flicking through it. I’m not even looking at the work, but want something to distract myself with. Another twenty minutes pass before I hear my name. “Um,. My family is saying that I’m doing weird things. I have no clue what they’re talking about my left arm not included. Why would I say that? My anxiety expresses as some paranoia (That’s cool we’re old friends. It’s a awesome friend to have in any form of Law enforcement. He’s kept me from a beating many a time.) My anxiety also expresses itself as random jerks in my body and it gives my left arm a kinda of life on its own. When I stress it will draw itself up by my shoulder and my fingers do. More

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