You arrive early for your appointment because you are reliable. Not predictable. Dependable.

You show the tattoo artist the characters you want on your arm. She looks skeptical, but as a veteran of many spring breaks, she agrees and goes to print a stencil.

She returns with it and two other people.

"This?" A slim, colorful woman holds up the design.

You nod.

"As was foretold?" asks a dark, burly man.

"Yes." You did call ahead.

"Do you hail from the North, South, East, or West?" he asks.

"The Great Northwest, actually."

"We've been expecting you," says the colorful woman.

OK. You made the appointment days ago.

"Summon the council," she tells the man, who rushes off. You didn't realize a tattoo required City Hall's approval.

"This way." She leads you through dark curtains into an incense-choked room. You give them high marks for ambience, though the candlelight seems insufficient to the task.

She gestures for you to lie on a stone table. "Choose a hue for the dedication!"

"Power to the purple!" you declare as you hop onto the table and point to your bicep. "Right arm!"

The woman bows with great reverence.

This is much cooler than you expected. You feel edgy, daring. It's the best birthday present you've ever given yourself.

The tattoo artist enters the room, along with a bank of fog and a mid-size coven of cloaked figures.

"Prepare the instruments!" the colorful woman commands, then turns to you. "Do you request chanting, silence, or a hymn for the ceremony?"

"...a cut from Lorde's Māori-language album, ending with Chappell Roan's The Giver." You describe your playlist in detail. The Colorful Lady masks a yawn and hands you the aux. Carly Rae Jepsen's voice fills the room. You bop along. The cloaked folks sway slightly.

The artist prepares your arm and places the stencil. It's a lot of characters. "Go big or go home," you think, and briefly consider the latter. But, no. You're cool now.

The C.L. turns to you. "Please lead us in an invocation."

Um.

"Any way the wind blows. Doesn't really matter to me," you conclude, the room reverent silence. "To me."

The Colorful Lady smiles for the first time, her myriad tattoos... glowing? "Let's begin."

The candle flames brighten. Good. You felt it was a little dark in there. The fog bank starts swirling, which you're less keen on. The tattoo artist readies her instrument, a luminescent feather.

"To which of the Ancient Ones do you make this dedication? Cthulhu, Bahamut, or Thanatos?" the Lady asks.

"The first one," you decide, unwilling to attempt the pronunciation.

The Colorful Lady is impressed. The cloaks nod approvingly. The tattoo artist shrugs and starts working.

Tattoos, you learn, hurt.

The characters take up much of your arm, leaving it more purple than fleshtone.

Moments later, she's done. You only made it to the second song on the playlist. The candles gutter, the fog lifts, and the cloaks file out of the room.

You pay, tip, and try to decide where to show off your new ink.

"Sun's out, guns out." You roll up your sleeves and stroll down the sidewalk, flashing your fresh (and surprisingly well-healed) tattoo.

You catch people staring, some openly horrified. Let them gawk. You're edgy now.

The 24-hour diner flips its sign to "Closed" as you pass. Edgy.

You spot an occult bookstore. They lock the door. So edgy.

You stop at a pet store window. An octopus gazes at you longingly. Different.

The game store guy waives you in. As does the storefront-church preacher.