Last weekend friends came over from Miami (they're Danish radicated in the sunshine state for now) and Matthias and I got in the mission of having a true clich'e kinda weekend for them. After picking them up really late from the airport (I mean, who flies to Houston using AA???) we woke up the next day, packed up a nice brunch and headed to Sean's --our army friend-- house. After 20 minutes of gun display and safety explanations, we were on our way to the Academy to buy ammo and then off to the shooting range. Here, an editor's note: I hate guns, they are a miserable display of human capacity and love for destruction, nice greased little machines that fascinate and kill at the same time.
Anyway, we spend around 200 dollars in bullets of all calibers, rode a good 40 minutes and prepared ourselves with the first rounds.
I guess I had held a gun when I was 17 and my grandpa showed me his unloaded and very old revolver. And here I was, shooting like a maniac with the smooth .22 (it's the girls favorite since it doesnt kick at all) trying the 45 --and hating it, and trying not to jam the sig-sauer.
It is a weird feeling for me to feel the hard metal in my hands. The powerful explosion, the smell of gunpowder and smoke and the tension in my arms for aiming the very heavy dirty Harry. And then THE BIG ONE: The M4 rifle, the same one that kill afganis and iraqis, that can throw grenades and descends from the ultra famous m16. All in all it was scary but in some way made me feel powerful... over what? Some piece of paper with a black silouhette? Well, what can I say, we all love that feeling no?
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