A woman who tattooed her boyfriend’s name on her forehead is defending her face art, suggesting that anyone who refuses to do the same, isn’t really in love.
Ana Stanskovsky, who penned a permanent love letter to Kevin on her face, insists it’s an expression of love, but online users are saying “it’s stupid” and that her “next boyfriend will hate it.”
Polish-born Ana Stanskovsky surprised her 588,000 TikTok followers by sharing a post of her newly transformed face.
In a viral TikTok clip, Stanskovsky is seen sitting in a chair, having some work done to her forehead.
The “my new face tattoo” video, which has 18.3 million views since it was first shared November 6, shows Stanskovsky getting her boyfriend’s name, penned in large black cursive letters, across her forehead.
The clip zooms in on the artist permanently inking over the stencil that reads “Kevin,” and Stanskovsky wincing in pain.
When the art is complete, she stands up to view her extreme expressions of love in the mirror
“Done? Okay let’s see. Oh my God, I love it. Wow, Kevin’s gonna love it,” she says.
She finished the clip by asking her followers “Do you think he will like it?”
Responding to her question, one netizen jokes, “He’ll love it! Your next boyfriend will hate it though.” Another user writes, “I don’t know who Kevin is, but wherever you are…. Run!”
As the video hits the eyes of the puzzled social community, people are warning her of future regrets.
“Great decision here. I don’t see how you could ever regret this,” one fan shares.
Replying to the overwhelming suggestions of regret, Stanskovsky fired back with another clip saying she will never regret the Kevin tattoo.
Stanskvosky replies, “I know many of you said I’m gonna regret that and what if we break up and all of this stuff, all of this horrible stuff and I just wanna say this is how I’m expressing my feelings so if I love someone, I’m doing this.” She continues, “I’m loving it, I’m definitely never gonna regret that. How can I regret this? It’s beautiful.”
“A handwritten note is a precious way to express your feelings,” quips one cyber citizen.
Fans still aren’t convinced, and many think her outrageous announcement of love must be a joke.
“Wait. Wasn’t it a joke?” writes one while another says, “I was waiting for them to say it’s just a prank but they never did.”
The influencer then tells viewers that every time she looks in the mirror she is “in love.”
“I’m in love with the tattoo and I’m in love with my boyfriend,” she said. “I think if you really love someone, you’ve just got to show it you know, you’ve just got to prove it…So I think if your girlfriend doesn’t want to tattoo your name on her face, you just need to find yourself a new girlfriend because I don’t think she loves you.”
Shocked by her comment, users jumped in saying she needs to reconsider her shows of love.
“‘if [your] girlfriend doesn’t want your name on the forehead she doesn’t love you,’” One netizen writes, quoting her. Then offering this advice to Kevin, the user continues, “dump her ASAP.”
Given the uncertainty of relationships, one netizen asks, “and if he breaks up with you what then?”
Stanskovsky answers: “What if we break up? I’ll just have to find myself a different Kevin.”
But one person has a better idea: “It would be better if you wrote on it that I am stupid.”
At the moment there’s been no response from Kevin.
What do you think of this woman getting her boyfriend’s name tattooed across her forehead?
There are far better ways of expressing your love, and if you insist on a grand gesture, maybe a smaller tattoo in a place it’s not so visible?
MY 12-YEAR-OLD SON DEMANDED WE RETURN THE 2-YEAR-OLD GIRL WE ADOPTED — ONE MORNING, I WOKE UP AND HER CRIB WAS EMPTY
The morning sun streamed through the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. I stretched, a contented sigh escaping my lips. Then, I froze.
Lily’s crib, nestled beside my bed, was empty.
Panic clawed at my throat. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. “John!” I yelled, my voice hoarse.
John rushed into the room, his face pale. “What’s wrong? Where’s Lily?”
“She’s gone!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Her crib is empty!”
John’s eyes widened. “Oh God, you don’t think…”
The thought that had been lurking in the shadows of my mind, a fear I had desperately tried to ignore, now solidified into a chilling reality. My son, driven by anger and resentment, had taken Lily.
The ensuing hours were a blur of frantic phone calls to the police, frantic searches of the house, and a growing sense of dread. Every ticking second felt like an eternity. John, his face etched with guilt and fear, was inconsolable.
“I should have been firmer with him,” he kept repeating, “I should have never let him stay home alone.”
But I knew it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I had allowed my son’s anger to fester, I had underestimated the depth of his resentment. Now, I was paying the price.
The police arrived, their faces grim as they surveyed the scene. They questioned us, searched the house, and offered little comfort. “We’ll find her,” the lead detective assured us, his voice firm, but his eyes held a grim uncertainty.
As the hours turned into days, the initial wave of panic gave way to a chilling despair. I imagined Lily, frightened and alone, wandering the streets, lost and vulnerable. I pictured her small face, her big brown eyes filled with tears, her tiny hand reaching out for comfort that no one could offer.
The search continued, but hope dwindled with each passing day. Volunteers scoured the neighborhood, posters with Lily’s picture plastered on every lamppost. The news channels picked up the story, her face plastered across television screens, a plea for information.
But there was no trace of her.
The guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. I replayed every interaction with my son, every harsh word, every dismissive glance. I had focused on the joy of adopting Lily, on the love I felt for this small, vulnerable child. But I had neglected my son, his feelings, his needs. I had failed him, and now, because of my neglect, Lily was missing.
One evening, while sitting on the porch, staring at the fading light, I heard a faint sound. A soft whimper, barely audible above the rustling leaves. I followed the sound, my heart pounding, my breath catching in my throat.
Hidden behind a large oak tree, I found them. My son, huddled beneath a blanket, was holding Lily close, his face buried in her hair. Lily, her eyes wide with fear, was clinging to him, her small hand clutching his shirt.
Relief washed over me, so intense it almost brought me to my knees. I rushed towards them, tears streaming down my face. “Lily!” I cried, scooping her up into my arms.
My son, his face pale and drawn, looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of shame and relief. “I… I couldn’t let her go,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “I know I was mean, but… but I love her too, Mom.”
As I held Lily close, her tiny body trembling against mine, I realized that the past few days had been a painful but ultimately necessary lesson. It had taught me the importance of communication, of empathy, of acknowledging the feelings of those I loved.
That night, as I rocked Lily to sleep, my son curled up beside me, his head resting on my shoulder. We had lost precious time, but we had also found something unexpected – a deeper, more profound connection. We had faced our fears, confronted our mistakes, and emerged stronger, more united than ever before.
The road to healing would be long, but we would face it together, as a family. And in the quiet moments, I would cherish the sound of Lily’s laughter, a sweet melody that filled our home with a joy I had almost lost forever.
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