Alex had always thought one day he would quit his wild ways and start putting his art first. He wasn’t just a tattoo artist, but he loved art in all styles. He loved to paint, do charcoal drawings; he loved to sit in a park or out in nature anywhere for hours and just sketch the things he saw. People looked at him and automatically drew conclusions about him. He was tattooed from head to toe, so therefore he must be a delinquent who did drugs (even though part of that was true), lived on the streets, was worthless and would never amount to anything. Most thought him a gun-toting outlaw just because he used his body as a canvas for his art. People would be surprised at how he was a hopeless romantic, how he longed to love and be loved. He had so wanted to have a relationship with his father, wanted his father to have never left. He wanted his father to be there for all of his successes, his graduation from high school, and the day he got his first car. He hoped his dad would have been proud of the road he took as an artist and of him owning a tattoo shop. Another item on the list of things Alex would never know.
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