And before that...

Hi!

ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

not much going on except Oswego and the Plan are playing Fort Reno tonight, which is fantsy.

I bought a very yellow shirt.

the english beat are Good.

I've been plagued by dreams that I have insomnia, which is only marginally less of a problem than having actual insomnia.

Oh! Here are some actual coherent thoughts:

You know, I remembered last night... I liked guns when i was little. Pretty a lot. It's strange to think about now. But at the time (the time being I think ages 9-12?), I had my little NRA pro-marksman and marksman certificates (never did make it to sharpshooter, but my sister did). I still have my marksman badge thingy that is supposed to go on my jacket, but I'm saving it for like, THE jacket to end all jackets, right?

The deal was, I went to this one-or-two-weeklong summer camp in Elkton Maryland. It was catholic, so boys and girls went at separate terms. It was on the Elk River, and its prime draw was watersports. Not pissing on each other for sexual gratification so much as waterskiing and windsurfing and getting your boating license and such. I was a tiny thing, and for all my ballet training I was useless when trying to do any of that shit. Windsurfing? Please. The sail, the lightest, smallest sail available, weighed more than me. I would sit there and spend my whole "windsurfing" period standing on the board sloughing my hands raw tugging at that godforsaken rope and on the offchance I got the the sail to angle itself away from the water, it would inevitably continue on its arcing trajectory, knocking me off the board and into the water, wherein I would be trapped under it. Such fun!

So, being adverse to the stated purpose of my little "vacation," and being too young to go sneak off and make out with the French C.I.T.s (Ohhhhh Cedric. Cedric Cedric Cedric.), I shot guns instead. Naturally. In the years when i finally "got" that I wasn't cut out for the water shit, I would spend all of my free time there, and all of my little candy and laundry fake money coupons on bullets. I loved the smell of gunpowder, still do. They only had .22s. Though one time, they let me shoot a .45, and it almost knocked me off my feets. Shit was loud. And badass. And lethal, mufucker.

I only shot paper targets, and they wouldn't let us do the ones shaped like people (even if we drew them ourselves). I've never shot a living thing (well, with the exception of that dicklicker that cut me off in traffic that time, but he totally deserved it). I'm trying to remember the guy that worked the rifle range, and i have no recollection of him except kinda blond Maryland native, and he would bite the bullets out of their casing and make little piles of gunpowder and let us light them. I think I liked him a lot, I think he gave me free bullets. I also remember him screaming at this hippie counselor guy who took a hiking group through the woods directly behind the rifle range, right in the line of fire. That's the only time I really unexpectedly heard him yell "CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!" really loudly. Usually it was more of a gentle prodding, like "come on kiddo, time for spaghetti."

Anyway, I think then my eyes started to go, and then the camp got closed, and that was it for me and firearms. But now that I have glasses and all, maybe I should try to find a rifle range around here and go squeeze off a couple rounds. Can't be hard to find one, I live in Virginia for christ's sake.