They Call Me TINKerbell

It may be emo, but I hate my dad. Sometimes. Actually, this posts not about that. It's really about that. So, I was thinking if I ever got a tattoo, that it would be a little Tinkerbell on my shoulder. You know Tinkerbell, right? She's the little pixie from Peter Pan. However, apparently now it's in for women to get Tinkerbell tattoos all over their drunken bodies, and it's giving people like me, who have a legitimate attachment to the little fairy, a bad name. My dad is blind, and when I was little I used to have to wear bells on my shoes. They sell them for everybody. Mostly so you can keep track of your little one when they'll wander off and be under the grand piano or something, and you want to be sure that they're not eating Drano. Or drinking Drano. Whatever. I dunno if they sell them so much anymore, but when I was younger they used to sell them all the time. Then again, I don't spend that much time anymore on the baby aisles, so maybe they do. So, anyway, yeah, I used to wear these bells on my shoes, and my parents started calling me Tinkerbell, or just Tink, or even Tinka. So, that stuck, and they still call me that today (when they're not cursing me out, anyway). So, I figure, why shouldn't I be able to proudly hold up the moniker Tinkerbell, without all these drunk soroity girls trying to steal it from me? Why, I ask you, why?