I’m embarrassed, yet strangely delighted. I blame LiveJournal for teaching me all I know.

Hello. I’m twenty-eight years old. I have never built a snowman.

We got a good bit of snow on Friday, so I got all ambitious and decided that it was time to change my status as snow architect from "never" to "active."

I concentrated hard on my efforts for an entire, let’s say, three minutes, before walking away and playing with the shovel. Henry spied my attempt and asked what it was. "Uh, that’s not how you make a snowman," he patronized as he continued to sneer at the uneven mound of snow that I formed by scooping and patting, not rolling which is apparently the universal method of birthing snowmen.

"Oh, then show me how," I said, knowing that it was a surefire way to con Henry into doing all the work while I pranced around in a crocheted frog hat and rain boots. (By the way, rain boots make terrible snow boots.)

By the time he was done playing snowman God, I was tired of being outside. It was still snowing hard and Chooch kept trying to sneak past us into the street, no matter how many times I yelled, "Danger danger!" I decided I would implement by carefully planned-out snowman face and accouterments the next day, which turned out to be beneficial because by the next day, it looked like this:

I was pleased with it’s current Leaning Tower state — it would make a more realistic dying snowman. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to slap a piece of salami on its face for a protruding tongue, some asshole kids stole his head and torso.I found the head a few yards up the steet, but the torso is probably in a garage somewhere, being harvested for kidneys.

Snowmen suck. So do kids.

I guess technically I still haven’t built a snowman. It’s the cherry that can’t be popped.

On the up side, we got a new car today. (No more hitchin’ rides, renting from Enterprise and borrowing cars from family members.

)

On the down side, keeping Chooch out of trouble in a car dealership for two hours is a pretty good recipe for a sanity split, no matter how many balloons, pretzels and cookies he’s plied with.

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

I’ve hit a dilemma for this weekend. We’re supposed to go to Columbus to see a Chiodos in-store appearance. I love Chiodos (apparently because they’re hot and not because they’re good) and they’re probably my favorite band at the mo’. They write the kind of songs that I would write.

If I could write songs.

Which I can’t, in case you were wondering.

But then today on the way to work, I heard a radio ad for World of Wheels which is apparently taking the Convention Center by storm this weekend. I started to tune it out, because car shows are stupid. But then I heard the excited announcer proudly shout that Mater from "Cars" is going to be there. Immediately I start picturing my kid, happier than an orphan being spoon-fed porridge by Santa’s arthritic hand, hugging a real life version of his beloved tow truck.

But Chiodos is more important than making the kid smile, I reminded myself.

I started to tune it out once more, but the announcer came back at me with a secret weapon — Drake Hogestyn, better known as John Black from "Days of Our Lives." HENRY’S FAVORITE SOAP PERSONALITY.

I dialed Henry with the urgency of an ER after a meth lab explosion.

"We have a problem!" I yelled, out of breath from all the excitement.

He loves it when I make calls like that while I’m driving. Loves it.

I quickly told him about the car show, about how Mater is going to be there. "And there’s someone else," I teased. "Someone that you REALLY LIKE."

"Who?" There was trepidation in his voice.

"John Black!"

"Goodbye."

But I think there’s a chance we can do both. I really might die if I don’t get a picture of Henry and John Black. I really might die.

Sunday night, I had this strong desire to read a book. This presented an unfortunate situation, because I didn’t have any unread books here to choose from. The used stores were closed by then, and I didn’t feel like going to some gigantic book Babylon like Borders or Barnes and Noble because I wanted to get in and out and the choices there are entirely too overwhelming.

So I sucked it up and went to Wal-Mart. I know, I know. I hate Wal-Mart. It’s dirty there and bleak and makes me feel like I’m stuck in a state-run institution and I want out out out. But I figured the limited selection would enable me to grab something quickly and bolt.Convenience – that’s how they get you.

Since Henry was with me, we had to stagger down the completely boring computer aisle and then we had to look at lamps and then Chooch saw a large display for Cars magnets so I had to toss Lightning McQueen, Mater and Sally into the cart. You can imagine how disgusted I was since we were supposed to be there for me, to have my needs met. I could have gone off to peruse the books while Henry browsed what’s probably considered fine merchandise by people of his own social tier, but anytime I stray from him, he inaccurately gauges the amount of time I need before meeting up with me, and so I finish up in my aisle while he’s still off looking at butt paste and American flags. Then I go off in a panic-stricken search for him and my palms sweat and I whimper and I wind up tangled in racks of scarves and headbands and Looney Toons-emblazoned oversized sweatshirts and it’s just never a good scene.

Henry was having a troublesome time pushing the cart. "It must be one of the exercise carts," he grunted as he gave it another sharp shove.

"They have those?" I exclaimed.

"Um, no. It was a joke. Re-re." Here I thought Wal-Mart might be getting fun.

Henry stalled the cart in front of a row of magazines and I wandered off to the whole four columns of books. I peeked around the corner, expecting the row of books to continue on the other side, but instead came nose-to-nose with a blinding green St. Patrick’s Day headdress.

I skipped over the romance section and kids section and self-help section and Oprah section and was essentially down to one rack boasting a meager selection of current fiction. Now, aside from Harry Potter, I really haven’t had the chance to read in a very long while. I think the last new book I read was The DaVinci Code, and that was when it very first came out, before all the hype. So that was a long time ago.I used to read all the time when I worked at the meat place, but they were mainly James Patterson and Patricia Cornwell-type thrillers, nothing that really stuck with me so I don’t count those.

I tentatively tucked two books under my arm and held another in my hand, debating which to get. Some of the books I had actually heard of but wasn’t sure if I’d like them based on the cover art, because I’m shallow and I judge books by covers, evidently.

Just as I was about to put two books back and grab The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, a middle-aged woman with black hair and thick-framed glasses shoved her way next to me. Her body touched mine at one point, that’s how close she was standing. I withdrew, but then she spoke.

"This is a great book," she said as her arm jutted out and her finger jabbed the cover of Best Friends. The suddenness of her movement set me off balance and I took a step to the side. "I read it, then read it again immediately. It was great, couldn’t put it down." She slapped it into my hand, which was limply sticking out in front of me.

"Oh," I said with buzzing nerves. "Thanks." I’m always confused when strangers spontaneously speak to me.I learned all about people like her when I was in pre-school. She’s the kind of person who sticks razors in apples and drives rusted vans with tinted windows and has a doll collection that inhabits an entire bedroom in her old dilapidated farmhouse  and their eyes follow you around the room during the day and at night they come alive and fuck you with their porcelain hands. 

"This is great, too," she said. Her voice was full of self-assurance and confidence, as though she was recommending books to her sister or baby’s mama. She continued poking at books on the shelf, telling me what she thought of them, like we were having our own private book club meeting, while I casually skimmed the back of the first book she dumped into my arms. I’m thinking that if I wanted these kinds of suggestions, I’d just ask Eleanore for some good reads. Or Tina, though she strikes me as the type that enjoys Tim O’Brien war novels.

"Let me see what you got there," and I fearfully held out one of my original picks. "Oh, I haven’t read any of his books, but I hear he’s wonderful," she said of Nicholas Sparks. Then she titled her head back and pulled down A Thousand Splendid Suns.

"Have you read this?" I shook my head to the side. "All of my friends loved it. Me? Couldn’t get into it." She slammed it down and bent at the waist to look at the next row. I took that as my cue to leave. And I did, hurriedly, just turned and ran before she could talk again. And I was sure she wasn’t through talking to me. What was the protocol? Should I have said goodbye? Thanks? I didn’t really fucking care; I just wanted to go home before she made our bodies touch again.

At the self-checkout, I decided that the book she handed me looked really gay, so a Wal-Mart employee had to come over and help me since I already rang it up. Then I got home and realized that Nicholas Sparks is that asshole who writes all those sappy love stories like The Notebook. The one I bought is Dear John and I’m nearly done with it and it hasn’t done a damn thing for me. It reminds me of the stupid books my aunt Sharon used to read on the plane every time we’d vacation  together. She’d sit there and cry dramatically and clutch my arm and read passages out loud and I’d tell her to shut up and take a nap.

So please tell me what books you like. I really don’t know much about what’s "good" and "essential" these days — I’ve always been more into music. I’ve been having a hard time going to sleep when I come home from work and I’d rather fill that time with books and not TV. (I’m sure the fact that I chug coffee up until 11:30pm has nothing to do with my inability to sleep.) Tell me what to read; I trust you guys. No romance or science fiction, though. I really like horror and memoirs, and anything that’s unforgettable. Whatever that means.

When I notice I have a missed call from you, and I text you to see wtf you wanted, do not reply with "accident" unless you’re in the back of an ambulance. Because my heart is going to start performing palpitation gymnastics when I see that word, and when I find out you meant, "I called you by accident" and not "Hello, I had an automobile accident and am currently entangled in metal carnage" I’m going to want to take you from "accident" to "funeral" with one swift kick.

Got that, Henry?

(I can’t decide if I was more worried about Henry’s well being or the possibility that he totaled my mom’s car, which he was driving.)

Christina doesn’t know it yet, but I just bought us two tickets to see the Cure this May in Philly. Muthafucka.

"No Ordinary Love" by Sade was one of many songs that I played continuously in my awesome Aiwa tape deck while balled up on the purple carpeting of my bedroom floor and crying real tears over all the mushroom-topped crushes who didn’t return the crushing. I think it might have been tied with the B-side to Sophie B. Hawkin’s "Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover" as the perfect background music to many brooding sessions, but that’s another story.

Sixteen years later and that song is still so timeless. Even on a good day, if I hear it, it evokes that tugging sensation in my chest and I’m sulking all over again over the Joshes and Scotts of my junior high fantasties. It’s the kind of song that, if you’re alone, it makes you want to die. But when you’re with someone, it’s fucking perfect.

The Deftones covered this song a few years ago. Usually I turn my nose up at covers, but Chino does a cover right. The Deftones are one of the few bands that can cover the Cure with verve and panache, too, but for now, I’ll stick with sharing their cover of Sade.  

I didn’t feel like uploading my mp3 of the song, so here’s some gay You Tube video someone made showcasing a lovely pair of hands. I guess to illustrate that this song makes them want to hold hands? Rape hands? Be a hand model?

What are your songs like this, the ones you put on to torture yourself?

Happy Valentine’s Day, Internet. Now go get laid.

Only four of us were brave (stupid) enough to fight our way past the hundred-foot snow drifts and barrell across the sprawling and frozen tundras, just for the opportunity to sit in our swivel chairs and stare at the computer screen for eight hours tonight. We have no supervision, so look out.

I heard Collin tell Bob he brought some date rape lollipops to dole out to the cleaning women here tonight.

Bob is listening to Spoon. As he was putting the CD on, he asked me if I had heard of them. I have, in fact, but saying yes is never enough because I’m kind of musically psycho so I quickly added, "They’re from Texas" to further prove that I know who they are. Just in case my initial "yes" wasn’t enough to have Bob sold. Why do I do that? Sometimes I hate myself.

I often mistype Bob’s name as ‘Bon." Eventually, I’m just going to start leaving it like that.

I plan on staying until 8 before getting all Drama Club about the weather and then working from home. Henry told me to let him know ahead of time so he can get his girlfriend dressed and out of the house. That card.

Tomorrow I’m going to pursue a new career in bread baking. Data processing is for the birds.

Game Night should officially be renamed Catchphrase Night, since that’s the only game we ever end up playing. Hopefully someday we’ll play Last Word, which was my big fantastic Christmas present to myself. And no one ever wants to play it. But the box is green! And "Last Word" is embellished in beautiful glitter!

This was the first time that Christina, her sister Cynthia, and Cynthia’s boyfriend Joey were able to make the trek from Cincinnati to partake in game night. My brother Corey brought his friend KC who was super sweet and now I want them to get married. Plus, KC was on my Catchphrase team and we had a good rapport. Corey texted me earlier, begging me not to embarrass him (which translates into: "Hey, I like this girl and would appreciate if she didn’t think I’m a prat") but I think I might have reneged when I passed around a picture of the haircut he gave himself the night before he started pre-school. And maybe I might have accidentally mentioned that he reenacted the Britney Spears’ "Stronger" video a few years ago.

The theme of this game night was ‘cereal,’ as suggested by Collin. I feel a little embarrassed that I used his suggestion, but it was appealing to me. Janna brought some kind of delicious chocolate powdery Chex concoction that Christina and Cynthia kept calling Puppy Chow and Corey was calling Poppycock, but I think he really just wanted a reason to say Poppycock. Chooch was up on his tiptoes taking generous fistfuls of that all night. Brenna and Liz brought their own variation of Chex Mix, which was some kind of Chai orgasm with dried bananas; it was so good but I barely got to enjoy any of it.

Henry acted like a baby because he had to use pumpernickel rolls for his spinach dip because the rounds were sold out everywhere. I thought maybe there was some sort of spinach dip festival going on until Joey reminded me that the Superbowl was the next day.

My contribution to the cereal vittles was a delightful peanut butter cookie with just the perfect smattering of Cap’n Crunch crumbles intermixed. Granted, my hands never actually touched any slimy gritty batter — my Henry implemented my brilliant idea into a realistic recipe.

I was really anticipating Collin’s arrival because he and Christina had been sharing some hostility with each other via comments on my blog. I had hopes for an old school street fight complete with some curb stomping and protruding bones, but they ended up liking each other.

Bob from work came with his friend Dan, who joined me in "getting drunk and ruining everyone’s night." Christina favored Dan because she sells windows and he used to install them.

It wouldn’t be game night without Kara and her donations of tubbed frostings. This time she brought vanilla cheesecake filling and a box of Cookie Crisp for a delicious win. She was in high competitive spirits though, and acted like the Catchphrase gestapo. I was afraid she was going to flash her fiancé Chris the secret signal to send him off breaking kneecaps, but it turned out he was too caught up in a heated debate with my work friend Lindsay over gelatin.

My favorite moment was when Catchphrase was in Janna’s hands:

"Oh, OK — what does Erin get every time we go out to eat?" (Unfortunately, there was only one person on her team who would know — Christina.)

"Grilled cheese!"

"No, the other thing."

"French fries!"

"No, the other thing."

"…………………………"

"The thing on the bun."

"Oh….VEGGIE BURGER!"

I thought Cynthia called Janna "Vagisil" at one point (I think she was really saying that Janna was full of fail though), so ‘vagisil’ became Cynthia’s fall back answer every time the buzzer would run out on the opposing team. It was a welcome change from the usual ‘blow job.’ I have a skewered recollection of shouting "formica!!" over and over until Joey refused to take any more guesses from me and turned to our other team members, of which one was Collin. I don’t know how I let that happen, but I’ll chalk it up to the Woodchuck and poorly structured seating arrangement.

Sometime after I busted Christina cheating, she went outside and sprayed my street with vomit. To the unsuspecting eyes of my neighbors, it probably looked like I was hosting a wild kegger at my house. She came back inside and I told Henry to take her up to our room. "And do what with her?" he asked with mock alarm. Evidently, two or three people laughed at this, so he was riding on a comedic high for the rest of the evening. And at one point, he told me I flirt like a three-year-old and shoved me away.

Cynthia had some verbal vomiting that I spent the next two days cleaning up, but I think all is well now. It’s just that not everyone enjoys being called a dumbass over a game. I know I don’t.

My chest feels like it’s been shot three times while wearing a bullet proof vest, so you’ll understand if I cop out and say that it was a rad night and can’t wait for the next one.

Since Henry was a dear and preparing all the food for game night, I agreed to make the journey to the grocery market to get the stuff he needed. All by myself. Alone. Me, in a grocery store. Solo.

To make my trip easier, Henry was nice (smart) enough to make me a list. (He spelled ‘vegetable’ wrong.) But at the last minute, I panicked and begged Christina to come with me.

And thank god. She showed me how to choose good peppers. "Ew, no, that one’s bad." I’d pick another. "Um, no, that one’s bad too." I’d pick another. "OK look — when there’s mushy spots, that means they’re bad."

Christina picked the peppers.

Giant Eagle was out of pumpernickel rounds (I kept calling them boats?). I panicked, but Christina assured me that we would get the damn pumpernickel somewhere else.

I made friends with an old lady. Her cart was jutting out in the middle of a very critical thoroughfare, blocking my advances. We made eye contact and she threw her head back in joyful old woman laughter, pulling her cart back for me. I saw her a few minutes later as I was bounding out of an aisle acting like my cart was a plow, and nearly collided with her. I pulled back and let her pass. Her face moved into an exaggerated expression of relief and we laughed. I kept talking about her after that and Christina had no idea what was going on. I think she thought I had an imaginary friend. I wish.

 There was an older couple in the beverage aisle and I hated them immensely but I’m still not sure why. Christina said they weren’t that bad. Oh, they were in my way, that’s why. But then I forgot about them when we approached the snack aisle and I realized with great excitement that Kenny Rogers’ "You Decorated My Life" was plunking away quietly on the sound system overhead. I lifted my arms in graceful ballerina motions and, in my signature "I’m Excited" fast talk, rambled, "I used to make up ballet routines to this song and dance on my mom’s front porch when I was little!" Christina, distracted by a Wise potato chip sale, mumbled that she knew, I had already told her, and that I made her listen to that song once in the car because it was on one of my Greatest Lite FM Hits mixed CDs. She threw two bags of chips in the cart and we moved on. 

At the check out, I started to feel nervous. I’m a notorious tight wad, and the thought of spending money on all that food frightened me. But then I realized that my purse was at the bottom of the cart, giving the illusion of a full load. "Oh thank god, it only just looked like a lot of food," I sigh, hand on chest. My purse is super gigantic. I could be Mary Poppins. If I liked kids.

We loaded all the bags in the car. Well, Christina loaded all the bags in the car while I played on my Blackberry. At the end of the parking lot is a beer distributor that my dad’s family once owned, so because I’m always using my brains, I suggested that we just walk down there and take care of the alcohol acquisition while we were out.

"My dad used to bring me here when I was little," I told Christina as we crossed the parking lot. "I’d have a fucking field day climbing atop all of the stacked beer cases and crawling through the tunnels that the tight aisles made. I’d have so much fun there." When we walked in, I wondered if my dad’s brothers would be working. I thought my dad had mentioned recently that they still work on weekends, just for the fun of it. But I only saw some middle aged man that I didn’t recognize.

We grabbed a case of Woodchuck. Well, I pointed to a case of Woodchuck and then Christina hoisted it up. As we neared the register, the customer in front of us turned to leave, revealing another man behind the counter. It was my dad’s dad.

My dad, though he adopted me when I was nine, is essentially my step-dad, and if you want to get nit-picky, he’s not even that anymore because my mom divorced him back in 2001. But we get along, not so much that I could legitimately say we’re close, but he’s a nice guy and I enjoy seeing him.

His dad, however, is another story. I haven’t seen my Grandpa Kelly in about ten years or so. He has an extreme case of OCD — he’s been hospitalized for it and he pretty much thinks he has AIDs anytime he uses a public restroom. The last time I went over his house, my dad met me outside and gave me a refresher course. "Don’t talk about your cats! Oh my god, he’ll have a fit. And don’t let him know you smoke! Just…don’t talk. Don’t talk, OK? And don’t pick up things from the floor." It was Father’s Day, I believe, and he didn’t even come out of his room anyway.

Christina dropped the Woodchuck on the counter. And I’m standing there, just standing there awkwardly with my arm extended limply, credit card and ID cinched between my thumb and forefinger, and he’s staring at me. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me, was trying to place my face, or was just zoned out because let’s face it the dude’s about eighty-five years old now.

I cleared my throat. "I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m…" Crap, what’s my dad’s name? "D-Denny’s ….. stepdaughter. Erin? I haven’t seen you in many many years."

He continued to stare at me, his eyes were pearly and milky behind large glasses. Something registered and he gave his head a sharp shake. "Erin! Oh, Erin, why, how are you? What are you doing buying beer, young lady? You’re supposed to be this big!" He held his hand out by his thigh, indicating the height of a child. He flicked his eyes toward Christina and I introduced her. He took her hand and held it in a lingering clasp. I was shocked that he was touching a stranger’s hand. Especially Christina’s, that dirty Mexican.

"So, where are all the contestants?" he asked, looking behind us. We shrugged and look at him confusedly. "All the contestants….in the beauty pageant."

This was a line right up Christina’s alley and she played him like putty from that moment on. It’s kind of sickening how she has the ability to flirt with old people. She’s like the physical embodiment of "wink wink, nudge nudge" and her cheesiness makes me uneasy sometimes. While they bantered, I grabbed a handful of jerky for Bob. I wasn’t sure what kind he was always dyking out over at work, but I knew it wasn’t Slim Jims, because the kind that MSA offers in the vending machine "blows Slim-Jims away."

"Erin was just telling me how she used to come here and climb on the beer cases," Christina schmoozed. Grandpa Kelly waved his arm out toward the store and told us to have at it.

"Eh, I think I’d do quite a bit of damage now," I grimaced, while Christina was yammering on something about "wait until we drink some of this stuff, then we’ll come back and play" and I realized at that point that she should really start wearing leisure suits while trying to pick up helpless women at the gym. I wanted to leave. It was hot in the store and kind of uncomfortable being leered at by this old man that I haven’t seen in ages. He scrutinized my drivers license for too long and he rang us up at a snail’s pace. I’m quite sure his tenure at the beer distributor should have ended ten years ago.

He kept making comments about how I grew up to be such a beautiful woman, and the way the words were passing through his old man lips made my vagina beg for a staple gun. Sleazy. Which is probably why Christina forged such a quick rapport with him.

The middle aged man came back into the store and Grandpa Kelly had him carry out the case to my car. I tried to talk him out of it, insisting that we had parked too far away, but he made it clear that it was his job. So this younger man heaved the case up and Christina fake-flirted with him too, the whole way back to the car. She’s such a sexual predator.

"You having a Super Bowl party?" he asked, with just a touch of Pittsburghese.

"No, we’re having Game Night," I said, opening the car door for him. Christina and I laughed about that later. "He probably thought to himself, ‘Isn’t that what game night is?’" I mocked on the ride home.

The next day, I called my mom and told her of my run-in.

"He still owns that place," she corrected me. "It’s just not called Kelly’s Distributor. It never was, I don’t know why they had all those shirts with that on it."

And that asshole didn’t hook me up! He could have at least thrown in the jerky for free. Bob didn’t even eat any of it.

This man and his very stylish jacket walked past me last week when I was taking pictures with my rudimentary pinhole camera. I wished that the jacket had been a dress, I would have said, "Nice frock, cuz."

I’m waiting for the slow Harrison sisters to shower. They’re in from Cincinnati, specifically for game night, because they know that game night is where it be. I think we’re going to get some Ethiopian cuisine for lunch, which is kind of ironic that I’d choose to go somewhere that outlaws utensils after devoting an entire entry to messy food and the many ways I hate it. That’s me: a multi-faceted gem of contradictions.

I love this thing. You should all appease me, because I guarantee I’m going to get a fat basket of nothing from Henry on Valentine’s Day!

Also, if you have Blackberry Messenger, totally add me. My PIN is 2424F31C. I have 0 contacts. I even posted what pretty much comes off sounding like a desperate personal ad over at the Crackberry forum. Crackberry, lol.

Again, that was 2424F31C.

Get your own valentinr

********

In work related news, Collin chucked a penny at me and then made his usual remarks confirming his alliance with Henry. Indignant, I told him that it seems so strange that he’s practically begging to head the Team Henry Foundation.

"You only met Henry once!" I reminded him.

"Yeah, but I have to deal with you everyday."

EDIT 10:29pm : Bob was singing "What is Love" by Haddaway and thankfully, oh Lord thankfully, Collin happened to have it on his iPod so now he’s listening to it and he seems pretty pleased about it too.

I haven’t had too many encounters with guns. Aside from all the times I was held up in mini marts and ATMs in Houston’s fifth ward, and the time I had to shoot a handicapped priest as a gang initiation, the last time I was around guns was this past Christmas.

My grandma’s living room has a museum-esque air — delicate and unlivable, with vases and French crystal figurines and family heirlooms that look almost naked without Do Not Touch signs. One corner of the room holds a round glass table surrounded by four powder blue velvet chairs, low-to-the-ground; that corner is begging to host a tea party with Zsa Zsa Gabor and Elizabeth Taylor, circa 1957. It’s my favorite part of the room, but I’m afraid to sit there. Instead, I sat down on a love seat that probably has only held a dozen asses in the last forty years, and watched Corey take pictures of gallery-lit portraits on the wall and Lalique collectibles on the gilded coffee table. We weren’t supposed to be in there, no one’s ever supposed to be in there. I think the last time my grandma entertained in that room was Christmas of 1984.

When I got up from my seat, my toes nudged something hard protruding from beneath the couch. I bent down to look closer, but the sham of the couch prevented the object from spilling out on to the white shag carpet. I prodded through the sham with my fingertips, I traced a very frightening and hard outline. I quickly flipped up the sham, quickly glanced, quickly screamed, quickly ran into the den where Henry and my grandma were watching TV.

“Grandma, I don’t want to alarm you or anything—” I panted and swept the hair from my eyes; my hand covered my vibrating chest. “—but there’s a gun in the living room.”

My grandma looked away from the television and stared at me. And then my grandma laughed and wheezed, squeezing in several incredulous ‘what?!‘s in the mix, laughed some more, wheezed some more.

I spoke in rapid-fire torrents of terror. There’s a gun! Under! The love seat! In the! Living room! A gun! Gun!

She stared at me, her mouth stuck in an amused o shape, and then her mouth became word-capable again.

“Oh! Yeah. There’s like, thirty of them under there.”

~

We were talking about guns the other night at work, just a typical conversation you’d expect to encounter at work, nothing crazy. Collin and Bob began to argue about various laws — Collin said he thought you could kill a person if they came in your house and not go to jail. Bob goes, “Oh my fuck, you crazy asshole, are you kidding? I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.” Then I said I hoped Collin was right because I’d get myself a gun real quick, come home, shoot Henry. “Officer, he was in my house!” I practiced. “I was just defending the home front.”

Then, because I’m paranoid and obsessed with protecting my person. I asked Collin about rubber bullets.

“…because on Days of Our Lives, this guy was trying to kidnap Belle and Claire and so he shot a cop in the chest with a rubber bullet, and and and….”

Collin said he wouldn’t even trust me with those. “You have to shoot those with a rifle,” he said, assuming that I couldn’t handle it. “And sometimes it’s possible to actually kill a person with those.” (I assume he thought that would deter me.) I told him about my Pappap’s gun collection and he seemed a little concerned that there are several cabinets of shot guns and rifles in my Pappap’s game room, and an arsenal suitable for your average Capone under the furnishings in the living room, practically laid out at my feet like floral offerings at the base of a Virgin Mary statue.

You know what I’ve always wanted? An AK-47. Or one of those teeny pretty guns that rich women who wear a fur stole keep in their Gucci pocketbooks just in case they walk in on their husbands fucking their best friend bang who was the maid of honor in their fucking wedding bang and now they’re getting their sex residue all over the fucking satin sheets from Paris, bang goddamnit.