When I Swear that I don’t Have a Gun

Did you ever wish you had a gun? I know some of you out there do, and that’s fine. I know how to shoot guns from summer camp. Rifles mostly. We would go hunting for targets printed on trees. If hunting meant you lying on a mat in a fanned area of the facility in the shade.

Or, you could get those crooked casino game guns. You know, that little machine gun tied into a fixed position and you can shoot the star all you want, but one tiny piece is left and you lose.

I’m in a state where gun control is fairly rigid. Not that I think I would own one by choice. I was watching a show out of Texas, some reality bull TV, and the girl had a pink gun. It was the first time I ever wanted a gun. Not for the gun itself, but it was pink. Yes, I went through a pink phase, where everything just had to be pink. Even if I didn’t know how to use the pink thing I had. Like the gun the girl bought.

Lately, due to my mental health issues the question has come up a lot. “Do I own a gun?” Part of me thinks to lie, say yes, just to see what would happen. Part of me wants to start reciting Nirvana’s “Come as you Are.” Either seems a bit nutty so I just say no. I think even if I did own a gun, the, “no” would pop out of my mouth anyway. For fear of some NSA no fly list category gets checked in their papers. Or, maybe say it to just to break out in song during the question and answer period. A mix to the mundane stroll of questions that would probably get me committed.

I wonder if they are asking if I would kill myself, or go all mass murder with it? I almost want to say yes just to see what would happen. I mean, sure, next thing you know the FBI is holding my family, dogs, and cats hostage because some girl in a crisis tells you they had a gun. Can’t be too safe these days. Messing with the FBI is not something on my to do list, mostly because they can mess with me much worse, with greater consequences. But is that what I really expect to happen because I claim to own a gun. And wouldn’t they be kind of silly to listen to a girl who obviously has mental health issues talk about owning a gun?

The truth is, I wouldn’t begin to even know what to do with a gun. My gun knowledge stems from forced summer camp learning, which also required basket-weaving and woodworking (and god knows I didn’t retain much of that information either), followed by a bunch of Bruce Willis and Steven Seagal action flicks, and ends with Grand Theft Auto (cheat codes included). Then sprinkle in a tiny bit of Elmer Fudd, and there-in lies my knowledge of guns.

So why ask me this question? If I say yes, I mean, let’s say, sure, I own a gun. Now what? Oh, you expect me to use the thing? Die Hard didn’t give me training in any of the guns I’d be comfortable owning (you know, not the pink girly ones), and I doubt they sell guns some rabbit can tie in a bow. The ones I see on Instagram seem more fashion then function, which is actually the kind I want. The pink one. Shooting it would make it dirty, no? Or does it make me dangerous?

I suppose with training, sure, I could be as good as anyone else with my pink swaravski crystal gun of Kardashian fame. But let’s face it, this question isn’t going to tell you anything about anyone. It’s not illegal to own a gun, and while I agree that certain guns should be kept out of people’s hands, how is asking me this question tell you whether or not I am going to shoot up a place? Can’t search me for a gun I don’t admit to having, and even if I did, you don’t know what gun I have. More or less if I even have the faintest idea of how to use it.

This isn’t meant to be a pro-gun, or anti-gun. It’s kind of meant to be funny. Like singing, “Come as you Are,” funny when being asked these questions. Which I don’t recommend.