At Least They're Committed

Geez, that was horrible writing. I mean, I know tons about shooting guns and how it feels and how far back a 44 Magnum kicks you after you pull the trigger (no, morons, it is no longer the most powerful handgun in the world) as opposed to a typical shotgun. My real bro, Dan, runs a gun shop. I have tear gas, pepper spray and bear repellent. My dad taught me where to shoot, when to shoot and how to avoid powder burns if maybe it was too close. (“Shoot for the biggest part of the body,” he says. I’d rather shoot for the head cuz when they explode it’s pretty much lethal. No bullet-proof vest bullshit.) It’s fun. It felt good to blow 10 guys away (yeah, they were all men tho I didn’t say so) but they were all faceless . . . meaningless, which of course is a metaphor for men in general, but also a Twainian observation. Trying to think of the next chapters . . .  I have Frances and James and Donovan and they all bore me. Think I’ll start over again.