I have a grand and desperate desire to shoot off my grandfather's 1924 S&W .38 revolver. Five minutes remain of my 27th birthday, and by the time I actually post this diatribe, it will be over. I clutch this humming confluence of magnets and metals and radio-waves, suppressing the primitive urges of a hunter/gatherer.
It's not like I want to go frivolously blasting fully jacketed projectiles into the atmosphere with reckless wantonness... I want to line up spent Pabst cans filled with water, meticulously positioning their aluminum cylinders along a beautiful tangent, and then pick them off with 30 glorious grams of booming gunpowder.
And so I think about creation verses destruction, and it is my wonderful wife who winches in this whimsical wonderment. She has afforded me the tools of creation: a bread peel, an oil mister, and the perfect brotform. Maybe all these gears of the meek and micro living have influenced me, powered me to seek the feckless abandon in picking off beer cans from my fence-line.
But the bottom line is... my birthday kicked ass. Kicked all sorts of ass...............
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