This Thing Called Life

When you work in a highly structured office environment, things can get a bit dull. A lot of your co-workers will likely be very vanilla - very greek yogurty - but some won’t. 

When I first met him, I expected him to be bland. I was wrong.

The most deranged, sexual deviant that I’ve ever met is a guy that spends hours in meetings, staring at dual monitors, and deciding which tie to wear in the morning. I have heard that people like him could be the ones to really surprise you, but I had yet to actually experience that. Now I know too much.

My mind has been blown and there is no piecing it back together.

She has a head, torso, and left arm - that’s it. Currently she is propped up against a wall in my apartment, sporting stickers for a kids shoe company on her nipple-less boobs, wearing a knit cap, and holding a 1990 Playboy desk calendar in her lone hand.

How much did she cost me? Absolutely nothing.

What the hell am I going to do with her? I have not a clue.

Has seeing her presence upon turning the lights on ever scared me? Every single time.

Does she have a name? Not yet, but I’ve been trying to come up with one.

Suit: You don't want to climb the corporate ladder?

This didn't happen.

As a child I fancied myself a military buff. I loved building model tanks and ships plus my favorite places to visit during vacations were war museums. Movies like "Saving Private Ryan" and "Blackhawk Down" cemented themselves as personal favorites while I  definitely shouldn't have been watching them.

I've been playing video games since I was 2-years-old and shooters have eaten up a lot of my time. During college I spent dozens of hours researching firearms on the internet and talking to friends about what we should buy some day. Despite all of this, I had never fired an actual gun . . . until now.

Every fiber of my being believed that I would feel empowered, even relaxed, the moment that the first bullet left the cartridge. Reality, however, had other plans.

I knew that the gun would have some real weight to it. I knew that it would be loud. I knew that there would be recoil. Once I stepped into the booth, prepared myself, and squeezed the trigger for the first time, none of what I thought that I knew mattered.

It was terrifying. I was genuinely afraid of what was in my hands and its potential.

I was dressed to impress, just not with a gun.

After emptying a six round magazine, I proved to be about as (in)accurate as a stormtrooper. My body was noticeably moving in anticipation of the next shot. At one point I definitely closed my eyes as I fired down my lane (don't do that. Really don't do that).

I got a little bit better over time but never found a groove. Each passing moment seems to be relieving and inducing stress at the same time. Beforehand I did not expect to handle things the way that I did but perhaps I should have.

Super cars are amazing (I promise this is going somewhere). Stunning to look at, incredible to drive, and out of reach for 99% of people. I would love to sit behind the wheel of one but if given the opportunity I would probably be scared the entire time. It's likely that I would either wrap the car around a tree or drive painfully slow the entire time and fail to enjoy a single moment of it. 

Guns = Super Cars

Despite this sad realization and the lack of skill that I displayed, I would like to go again; see if I improve at all or at least feel more in control. At the very least I'll just be sure to head to the range straight after work (again) so I can win the imaginary award for best dressed.