I made a half-serious, half-joking proclamation that if I go back to school, I'm going to learn how to do laser tattoo removal, because in about 25 years when all these little hotties are in their 50s, and their tattoo no longer looks like a gazelle jumping out of a flaming yin-yang but instead looks such as an antelope plodding in front of a subway tunnel as the 5:30 Blue Line to Franconia-Springfield makes its way out from under the Pentagon, I'm gonna be rolling in phat loot. This almost got me hit.
I, too, had once made a similar decision, with roughly equal proportions of joking and seriousness. But then I realized they probably require some kind of medical training before you can operate the Tat-B-GonŽ laser, and I don't want to become an actual dermatologist (I don't want to have to look at people's grody-ass skin conditions), other kind of doctor (I don't want to have to look at other people's grody-ass other kind of conditions), or nurse (I don't want to... well, you see where this is going); I just want to zap people with
frickin' laser beams. Another dream shattered, alas.