guns. we go to the gun range. i love to shoot them, but i can't lie, they produce a small intense ball of terror in my gut. it makes me second guess every move i make. knowing that the piece of equipment in my hand could end life is intimidating. my hands shake when i hold it. it's a feeling that i'm sure will pass with familiarity. i'd like some time to take the gun apart and put it back together. to feel all it's parts. i enjoy the feeling of the metal on my fingertips and the weight of the gun in my hand. the entire experience is good, even the fear. the bullets are slick with lubricant of some sort. the casings are hot. "You ladies gonna keep your brass?" the guys that are shooting the hand cannons next to us are really nice, even though they look like they might hunt faggots for fun, but we are ladies, after all. i'm a pretty good shot, despite my trembling. most of my bullets end up where i intend them to be, a peppered head on a pink man-shaped target. i'd like to go more often, to shake the fear off, hug it right to nothing. absorb it and turn it into a steady hand. i fall in love with the little old lady in the far lane shooting all by herself. she's inspiring. it's really hard to remember to not swing around with a loaded gun in your hand. don't look into the business end. no selfies with guns. always point down range. keep your finger off the trigger. i feel fully confident shooting 22 ammo. i want that confidence with bigger bullets. baby steps to reasonable goals.