I Got Stabbed on Friday the 13th (And I Liked It)

This month, I participated in a long-standing Friday the 13th tradition that, somehow, I’d managed to avoid in all my years on this Earth — and no, it didn’t involve a machete-wielding maniac or a cabin in the woods. Usually, my way of honoring the sacred horror holiday involves what I like to call a “Jason Voorhees mini-marathon,” which is just a fancy way of saying I watch exactly one of the movies and call it a night. Look, I’m festive but I’m also sleepy.

But 2025 had other plans.

Originally, my friend Victoria and I were going to celebrate the way any grown adults with corporate burnout and theme park passes do: with a trip to SeaWorld. Because nothing says “spooky Friday the 13th” like watching dolphins backflip for sardines. Plus, I had guest passes just rotting in my account like a neglected pumpkin.

Then Victoria sent me an Instagram post that changed everything: a local tattoo shop was doing Friday the 13th flash tattoos. She’d done one of these before. I hadn’t. I’d vaguely mentioned wanting to do it “someday” — but we’d agreed SeaWorld was the move.

Cue the dramatic twist.

New plan: we’re getting tattooed.

We foolishly believed this would be a breezy little side quest. Pop in, pick some ink, get stabbed a few times, and be out in time for late-night shenanigans (Victoria really thought we’d get tattoos and still make the drive to SeaWorld). Reality laughed in our faces. We arrived at 4:15 PM. What followed was an epic saga of waiting. Two hours to check in, choose our designs, and pay. Then five more hours of being tattoo-adjacent. Seven hours in total before one of us even touched a tattoo chair.

Did I complain? Weirdly… no. It was kind of awesome.

We made new friends in line, found a surprisingly decent dinner nearby, and somehow leapfrogged the group ahead of us for chair time (a Friday the 13th miracle). Sure, we ended up trading SeaWorld for shoulder cramps and questionable lighting, but it was one of those nights where chaos turns into memories.

Had we made no plans at all, I probably would’ve spent the evening alone on my couch, watching teens get murdered in the woods — again, festive but sleepy. SeaWorld would’ve been fun, but this? This was different. Messy, weird, and a little magical.

Would I do it again? Eh… probably not.

We theorized the summer crowd made things especially hectic. Next year has three Friday the 13ths — all during the school year — so maybe it’ll be less intense. Maybe.

Here’s a fun, totally non-essential fact: Every calendar year has at least one Friday the 13th, and the most it can have is three. The longest gap between them is 14 months. You’re welcome for this future trivia night win.

And if you’re wondering where this whole tattoo tradition came from, thank (or blame) artist Oliver Peck. Back in the ‘90s, he hosted a 24-hour Friday the 13th marathon, tattooing the number 13 on anyone brave enough to show up. It caught on. These days, shops across the country jump in on the action, and tattoo artists refer to it as “Black Friday” — but with more blood and fewer air fryers.

As someone who has been feeling a little boring lately (I prefer the term “mysteriously low-key”), this night was a welcome detour from my usual routine. I even walked away with two new tattoos. I’m still searching for a Florida artist I really click with — this shop wasn’t quite it — but the experience itself? Totally worth the plot twist.