The Shooting Range Groupon was an impulsive purchase. I didn’t think it through. I’m a vegan. I like to get into heavy discussions about stuff like the Rwandan genocide. I’d rather have my wisdom teeth put back in and extracted again than hunt. So anybody who knows me knows that visiting a shooting gallery would probably be a bad idea.
And it was the worst idea. Every pull of the trigger released something in me, something I could not ignore. It wasn’t just that I was scared - and I was terrified. It wasn’t just that I was angry - and I was livid. It’s that I was assaulted by a surprising amount of lastima.
Lastima for the shells on the ground, all that metallic waste. Lastima for the thickness of testosterone in the air, how it felt like a collective aggression. Lastima for the bang bang culture - the target, the spotting scope, the fun of a gun. Lastima for the “hobby” of it. Lastima for the panting dogs, brought along to get used to bullets blasting. Lastima for the children with wide eyes when accidents happen with these very same guns.
Whoever you are, I am not here to judge you. I’m not telling you what to believe in, who to vote for, or what to do with your free time. It’s just that if you choose to spend it playing with rifles and pistols, sending baby missiles in the air, keeping this whole thing going, I’d prefer not to join you. I know you enjoy it. I know you’re not firing at me. But the wounds of lastima last forever.