I am no degenerate. No low life. No resident of the street gutter. Yet for some reason, many of the elder statesmen of my society associate a very important part of me with all that is filth.

My tattoos are permanent memories of where I have been. I am not talking about physical places; these are mental postcards to my future self. I mailed my first one on my 18th birthday, another freshman year and my most recent one over this winter break.

As a writer, I am in love with stories, and every life is a unique one that deserves to be told. Consider my tattoos chapters, or maybe short stories. Each has their own message, but for some reason my most recent parcel has experienced shipping difficulties.

Tragedy’s angst-filled face and Comedy’s smile will forever peak out below a T-shirt on my right arm. (Those are the theater masks’ names, if they did not ring a bell.) And for some reason, this permanent mark permanently marks me as some kind of outcast. As my dad was more than willing to remind me, many people his age will assume this column’s opening sentiments about me. I have barred myself from all sorts of employment, he says.

Cool. I have no business working for a business that focuses on their employees’ looks rather than what is in their heads and hearts. The same goes for people. If someone judges me because of my ink, I never would have wanted to talk to them anyway.

And do not tell me how bad they will look when I get old – you are only expressing your own fear of old age, and mortality for that matter. Face it, no 70-year-old catches a young eye. Ladies, as sad as it is to accept, gravity will win its battle against you. And yes, our stomachs will hang low one day too, guys. But by then I plan to be a grandpa sharing lessons with my grandchildren that are much deeper than the drawings on my surface.

Since I was old enough to realize that people can forget what youth is like, I have feared forgetting how idealistically innovative an unmarked mind can be. My tattoos are levies against the creatively corrosive tides of aging.

I chose to design my exterior because I know what I am not – my body. This is just a temporary house. And a couple family pictures on the walls, mixed with love, make a house a home. Well, I love the postcards on my walls.

More people are painting their walls, too. 14 percent of college students surveyed by Texas Tech University’s “Body Art Team” have a tattoo. The two hottest names in music right now are both tattoo enthusiasts. Lil Wayne is draped face to toe in tattoos and Lady Gaga has several visible pieces; although, I suppose visible is a relative term when discussing Lady Gaga.

But who else do you see showing off their ink? Musicians and athletes are given an expression pass, but how many tattooed businessmen do you see? Diddy comes to mind, but he came up through music. There are not many Donald Trumps out there looking like Travis Barker. Maybe that will change as this generation climbs the business ladder.

I suppose I separated myself from a culture dedicated to conformity in the pursuit of the dollar. While my masks stay at my side, the suits will continue to put on whatever persona necessary to win over their client. I am fine with that. Let the suits run their rat race while I tread my own path.

No, my tattoos do not make me some kind of cool non-conformist. Even in name that group is contradictory. My life is just like my tattoos – a unique story.

Phil is a junior in Media.