Guns

I did it.

I went to a shooting range and shot guns: three shotguns, a 22, a Glock, a 45 and a 44 Mangum.

I went with my colleague Lance and a student. Lance is a lifelong gun enthusiast and belongs to a nearby shooting club. We shot skeet with the shotguns and targets with the pistols.

God damn, it was fun! Indeed, it was so fun that I am thinking about buying a gun and joining Lance’s shooting club.

I haven’t yet gone to a Mixed Martial Arts studio. But I have located one nearby. Tonight, or maybe tomorrow night, I will go check it out.

I must admit that the prospect of shooting guns, as long as no one is shooting back, strikes me as much more appealing than the prospect of placing myself in front of someone who is trying to punch me. But fuck it. I am willing to sacrifice. If the Universe wants me to get hit in the face in order to get a Van Gogh, so be it.

I am not sure why the Universe wants me to learn how to shoot and fight in order to get a Van Gogh. But somehow it all makes sense to me. The Universe, I have found, works in mysterious, though at times vaguely scrutable, ways.

But if I am going to do what the Universe wants, I figure it should do what I want. I have already told it that I want someone to trade for Dora Maar. But perhaps I need to give it a little reminder.

Universe, damn it:

I want someone to trade me a beautiful (and expensive) painting for Jeanette Jones’ Dora Maar.
I want someone to trade me a beautiful (and expensive) painting for Jeanette Jones’ Dora Maar.
I want someone to trade me a beautiful (and expensive) painting for Jeanette Jones’Dora Maar.

If anyone wants to trade for Jeanette Jones’ exquisite Dora Maar, let me know.