My Meaning of Success

If you don't know about Brandon, the amazing photographer behind the Humans of New York project, you are missing out on something really very cool. It was a project that started out in 2010 as a "photographic census of New York City" and morphed into something much, much more...a storytelling project, capturing snippets of stories and sharing them with the world.

So when HONY announced a couple of days ago that he'd started an indiegogo campaign to raise money for Hurricane Sandy relief, I couldn't help myself. I'm a bleeding heart, after all, and the incentives - which I normally decline - were too good to pass up.

In one day - 19 hours - his campaign exceeded its $100,000 goal and, at the end of day two, has raised more than $150,000.

I love it when this kind of glorious, happy shit happens. I'd like to think he'd be able to, at least, quadruple it. *hint hint*

Anyway!

After I'd contributed to HONY's project, I was reminded of another indiegogo campaign I donated money to this year. One I'd completely forgotten about after the campaign ended...at least, until the other night.

Let's Give Karen - The bus monitor - H Klein A Vacation!

If you don't remember, Karen Klein is a 68-year-old bus monitor who was bullied by several middle school aged kids on the bus as she simply tried to do her job. The video of said bullying was uploaded to youtube where she was displayed in all her humiliation as they poked her, taunted her, told her she should kill herself. And continued to do so after she started to softly cry.

A man, a stranger to Karen, started the indiegogo campaign on her behalf because he felt so bad for her. He asked people to donate a total of $5,000 to send her on a nice vacation...which I totally did. He would have had no idea when he started the campaign what would happen next when the internet took hold of it and ordinary people, people like me, got wind of it.

That campaign raised over $700,000. Every penny of it going to Karen and her "vacation". 

That money allowed her to take a nice vacation, yes. She also was able to retire from her bus monitor job so she could spend more time with her family. But, also? The other night when I was reminded of her and thought to check in on her and how she is doing, I discovered that she'd done something else extraordinary in addition to these nice things for herself...

She decided to pay it forward by starting her own foundation to combat bullying. 

This news compelled me to post this on my Facebook status:

Do you guys remember the bus monitor, Karen Klein, who was bullied by some middle school kids and the video depicting the bullying went viral inspiring a stranger to start an indiegogo campaign to raise a measly $5,000 to send her on a nice vacation? That campaign raised over $700,000 for her. It was enough for her to take a nice vacation AND retire. And then? She started her own foundation to stop bullying. She said, "I didn't feel like I deserved it." IT being the kindness and generosity of strangers. Well...guess what? We all deserve that kindness and generosity - from strangers and friends. Be kind. Be generous. And remember...when it comes back to you in spades? You deserve it.

Here's the thing...

You knew there was a thing coming, right?

Several weeks ago, in a somewhat public (but really family) forum, a ginormous jerkhead called to task a few people who had recently asked for financial help on said forum in the face of impending crisis. I took great exception to this for a number of reasons. And laid them out for him as succinctly as I could.

And then he came out swinging his "million dollar real estate" dick around and tried to force feed his idea of success - which, I'm sure you can easily define on your own by said description of said dick - and told all of us the same could be ours if we were all just willing to apply ourselves a little more.

Bleah.

Cocksucker. (Sorry. It still makes me mad.)

Visions of Mitt Romney and his 47% speech swim through my head.

Anyway!

The saving grace of the entire conversation - OK, fine, argument - was that it made me stop and think about what success means to me.

Me...the person he would judge strenuously and negatively because I live in a basement apartment, drive an 11-year-old (paid for) car, don't have cable or even Netflix, and shop regularly at the thrift stores. He would see me as an all out failure and, quite possibly, a burden on his idea of society...if by society you mean the 1%...even though I pay my taxes, don't acquire new debt, work hard, got my education, and make a moderate wage from a tax-deductible charitable organization. 

He would see me as a failure because, instead of trying to make more money and acquire material things, I volunteer my time and donate my money to people who need those things more than me.

The same reasons he would point accusingly toward as my failings in life are the exact same reasons I happily point to and say, "See? THIS is what makes me a success!"

I'm comfortable. I have a roof - that usually has heat and hot water - over my head, a job I usually love even though it doesn't pay as much as I could be making, reliable transportation, nutritious food, friends who love me, and pretty much everything else I need - even though it may not be the best, the newest, the prettiest, the shiniest - I'm happy and snug as a bug in a rug.

Success came to me when I was able to give a few dollars to HONY and the hurricane relief efforts, to Karen and her vacation/foundation, to the Information Cube project. Success, to me, is when a friend in need - no matter the reason - humbles himself and asks for help, and I actually CAN HELP. Happily.

That is success.

Seriously? Who honestly needs a multi-million dollar house anyway?

Am I wrong?

What does success look like to you?

Just One of Those Days

It's one of those days where, if I wasn't weepy and listless, I'd be glad I don't have ready access to the Hallmark channel or Subaru commercials because if I did, I would have parked myself in front of the boob tube all day and cried into a bowl of uneaten popcorn at the slightest provocation. As it is, I'm incapable of feeling glad about anything and, instead, I'm just crying in fits and starts for no reason sans popcorn.

It's been one of those weekends where everything is just wrong and I'm tired and angsty and frustrated and sad sad sad but mostly just bone tired. I need a boost and there's no one around to give me a boost...not even Lex who, for the first time in a long time, is seeing a girl, a girl he likes spending time with and who gets him to voluntarily leave the house. Which is good. I'm earmarking that one to be glad about later. 

Unfortunately, not even Vinny is cooperating with my need for some affection. Instead, mommy's little monster crapped on my bed in some kind of anxiety-laden attempt to get my attention. And now I just feel crapped on by The World. Which seems overly dramatic and ridiculous and untrue. Nonetheless, I insist upon swimming in this cesspool of pity. Adding insult to injury is the fact that it is Sunday and the laundry room has been busy all day so I couldn't get my bed linens in edgewise and am thus faced with sleeping on a bare bed with only a blanket for company.

Aren't you glad you're taking the time to read this right about now?

Hee hee. OK, I just smiled.

Oh! You know what else made me smile (and cry a little too but I'll tell you about that in a minute) today?

This was the re-scheduled fireworks show set off at the Colorado School of Mines last night. The pyros setting off this show? People I know and love. This is the most spectacular fireworks display I believe I've ever seen and I'm so proud of my friends who can and do make things go boom that I just had to smile at their talent. The tears came from the fact that I did not go to the show last night and, like you, had to watch it on the youtube. I didn't go because just the sound of a loud van's engine revving yesterday afternoon had me jumping out of my skin. Being up close and personal to the firing field - which is reserved for friends and family of the gang - was likely the worst place I could have been...aside from a gun range. I'm sad I missed this...mostly because PTSD robbed me of something I would have loved any other time. There is another show they are putting on at CSU in a couple of weeks. I'm going to try like hell to make it up to that one instead.

Oh! Here's some good news. Acr0nym is not moving to San Francisco. He decided over the weekend not to take the job there mostly because he doesn't want to leave here. Color me relieved. At least about that. Let's hope he gets additional good news tomorrow about the health issue he's currently experiencing. A health issue that is likely partially keeping me from gladness about him staying here in Denver. Frankly, I'm very worried about him. I'll earmark the joy for him staying here later too.

I think...so you know how I spent the last half of the week baking all those pies for the DIY food exchange at denhac yesterday? Well, on Friday afternoon, I came home from work exhausted. It had been a rough driving day, worse than I've had in quite some time and I had to do a lot of it unfortunately, it had been a particularly rough, angsty, stressful week. But before I could lie down for some rest, I knew I needed to juice the 40 key limes for the 2 key limes pies I needed to make. And as I was standing there, exhausted, bedraggled, feet hurting, and yet happy to be creating something with love for people I love that I had the thought...

This. This is what love looks like. It isn't sunsets and rainbows and choirs singing. Love is a pooped out woman in comfy pants and crocs, a lock of stray hair refusing to stay out of her tired face, standing in her kitchen juicing limes for pies even though what she ought to be doing is lying down for a much earned nap. That's love.

Anyway. So I made a bunch of pies. And I put so much love and glitter into those pies! I wanted them to be the best tasting, comforting pies I could muster. But I think I put all my love and glitter into them and forgot to keep a little love reserved for myself. Because right now I've got no love for me.

Naked Jen and I talked last week when we were recording the podcast about her idea that we should all strive to do one good thing each day, to love it out, to spread our glitter. What I'm thinking tonight is that sometimes that one good thing should be giving love to ourselves.

So...to end on a good note...I would love to know what your love looks like. Not the person you love but what it looks like to love. What is it that you do or see or take time for and find yourself suspended in that moment when you think this is what love looks like?

Tell me. I would love, nay I need, to know.

Red Cards of DEFCON

tl;dr Don't be a dick.

Perhaps the most significant moment for me at DEFCON XX - one I actually remembered to tweet - was one of the best for its wondrous convenience as well as one of the worst for its implication.

It was the moment I walked into the women's bathroom in the convention area rotunda for the first time and there was NO LINE. In fact, not only was there no line but there were only three other women in there with me.

It was GREAT as I really had to pee and any woman who has stepped out of her house to go pretty much anywhere ever will tell you that a women's bathroom without a line is a myth. There is no such thing.

Except...there is. At DEFCON. The world's largest hacking convention. Attendance rumored to be well over 10,000.

So...if there are, let's just say for our purposes, 15,000 people in a confined area and there is no line for the women's bathroom, then one must hypothesize that is because there were no women at the con. Which isn't entirely true, clearly, as I am equipped with an actual vagina and I was also in the company of a number of women from the 303. I even saw women I didn't know - several on the security goon squad (hats off to them in particular).

However, looking back on it, there certainly weren't many. If I had to take a wild stab in the dark at just how many I would say maybe 10%. 1500 seems likely. I guess. Based on the non-existent line in the bathroom, I'm almost inclined to make that even less. Regardless, comparatively few. Too few even though infosec is a predominantly male laden field.

So...where were all the women? 

A few days before I headed out to Vegas, a friend of mine - a woman - tweeted the link to a blog post Sexism red/yellow cards at Defcon written by a woman named KC who, after experiencing first hand the frustrations of sexual harassment at DEFCON, created a card system to school men when they were acting inappropriately. If presented with a yellow card, the perpetrator was warned that he'd made a mildly inappropriate move. If presented with a red card, the perpetrator was told he'd made a serious dick move that could warrant a punch to the throat.

Since I'd never been to DEFCON, I didn't really know what to make of these cards or the alleged harassment but I certainly could recognize their practical application outside of con. I wasn't crazy about the passive, literal card-carrying feminist approach - much preferring the verbal beat down or the sharp, pointy elbow defense that's worked for me all these years - but I didn't have any con experiences on this scale to compare it to and eventually forgot all about it.

Well...the cards quickly became something of a joke among the men I talked to at con. And, I will confess, one of my most favorite memories (I mentioned it last night) was when a male friend of mine red-carded me and claimed I'd attempted to grope his penis (I so totally didn't). It was particularly funny because of his straight-man delivery.

Additionally, I also must confess I personally did not find myself on the receiving end of any such harassment or witness anything red-card worthy. Yellow-card worthy perhaps when the increasingly inebriated guy working the door of the 303 party Saturday night began barring exit for all women until they'd given him a hug. I didn't think too much about it then because I was also inebriated and I also happen to know him for the huggable and harmless geek he is. Have no fear though, I'll talk with him about this later.

So when I got caught up in a lengthy online conversation and then pointed to an article, DEFCON: Why conference harassment matters, today, I was really REALLY confused and riled up about the cards but I didn't precisely know why. The stories of the groping, fondling, and overall non-consensual behavior of male attendees toward women was appalling. Could these stories be true? And, if they are true, am I so conditioned to ignore inappropriate behavior, trained to be quiet and to not make waves, that I'm blind to assault? Was I gaslighting these women for even questioning the validity of their claims? Had I overlooked questionable behavior from my friends because I know and trust them not to intentionally disrespect or harm the women around them?

Honestly, I didn't know.

Luckily, just at the right moment, the wicked gorgeous and brilliant Nephthys, the friend I referenced last night - the one who had gotten asked the legendary "Do you know Pyr0" question when she was getting hit on - popped up in IM. And I asked her about her experiences specifically at DEFCON over the years. Her answer made me sad.

Here's what she had to say:

Nephthys: I wholeheartedly support anti harassment policies. HUGELY. I think defcon has a long way to go to make it a female (or other minority) friendly place. I get harassed, yes. And I should get more angry about it than I do because some of those people are friends and there is not much one can do w/out people thinking poorly of you. It's a sucky sucky position to be put into so I laugh and "jokingly" scold while inside I'm heartbroken. In any other setting, I am firm about it. "Don't do that. That's rude and disrespectful".

Me: So why the double standard for DC?

Nephthys: Because that could and has been tossed back at me that I'm the bad guy for being a bitch or "it's all in good fun". It's tricky. I know that Gentleman Friend X is not a creeper and he would never hurt me. However, when he does things like that he's being "friendly". But turn it around, would they want their wife/daughter grabbed or talked that way to? Puts me in a weird place in that there instantly becomes this shift in dynamics. I'm no longer just one of the guys. I'm now this person who can be fondled or propositioned inappropriately. That makes me feel "less than". I had this talk with [redacted]. He said harassment didn't exist at con. He'd never seen it. I asked him how many times I had my ass or boobs grabbed or how many guys lasciviously asked me to go to their room to "see the view". The answer 3, 1, 2.

Oh.

She also indicated that, for years, she'd stopped going to con, in part, because of how she'd been treated.

Oh.

Yowch.

At that point, two things happened.

First, I went back to the podcast episode I recorded for Sharp Pointy Objects with a few of my friends who are sex workers - Diva, Saskia, and Vylette. And I was reminded what they had to say about living in a patriarchal society where sex is still a commodity, where men (and women) don't see women as equals, and why women are objectified at every turn. The same episode that concluded with me asking why feminism is considered a dirty word among women.

And then I went back to KC and found a follow up post in which she states: "I am not a big bad, huffing and puffing feminist. Actually, I have problems identifying as a feminist at all." She then goes on to say, "Also, please PLEASE for the love of all that is holy, stop telling me to simply not go to Defcon if I don't want to deal with this kind of behavior. That is a cop out of epic proportions. It is an attitude that devalues women in this scene that only serves to keep us invisible."

And, from that and the conversations I'd had earlier, I came to some conclusions.

1. Sexism exists everywhere. Even if I don't see it or recognize it, it's there. Some would disagree with this statement but I'll put it out there anyway...sexism particularly exists at con.

2. I gaslighted women when I made fun of the cards.

3. No matter what a woman does for a living she does not deserve to be harassed or assaulted. No does mean no regardless of the language you speak.

4. While I honestly do think the cards are ridiculously passive and silly - and disdainfully thought of them much the same way I would think of a junior high peer hall monitor handing out detention slips for sticking my chewed gum in the water fountain - they do serve a noble purpose. To get both men and women to pay attention and talking about what is acceptable and what most decidedly is not.

5. I am a feminist. And that's not a dirty word.

6. Finally, if I ever EVER see anyone I know (and luckily the jerks I know are actually good guys who wouldn't ever do this) harassing and/or assaulting a woman or a man who is clearly uncomfortable - even if it's just in "good fun" - I will, at the very least, verbally spank them and send them to his/her room. 

I think it's the least I can do.

I'd like to see more women at DEFCON...

Even if I do have to stand in line to pee.

Here's KC talking about the cards she made...

Why You Gotta Be Like That?

So I'm standing there, out on Broadway, waiting for my cab, minding my own business, talking to a friend who was relatively hidden from sight by the iron gated enclosure and awning of the Sobo 151 smoking patio, when a car drives past and we hear something...something...something "BITCH!". Directed, one can only assume, at me as I was the only one standing there in plain sight.

And I'm like all...

Wait...what?

What did I do aside from simply exist in such a way that you noticed my presence?

The answer is nothing. I wasn't doing anything besides talking to my friend and leaning against the fence.

And yet...

A random stranger driving past thought it was OK to hurl insults, calling me names out his window.

Why?

What did he get out of it?

Did he feel good about that? Did he think it was funny? Did it feel awesome to insult a complete stranger, call her names, just because he could?

WTF is that?

And why are people like that? Seriously. Why does anyone have the desire to be so callous and rude to a veritable stranger? Why do any of us think it is a grand idea to degrade someone we've never met...someone were just...cruising past - whether that's in the grocery store or driving down the street?

Because really...that person you are blatantly insulting? She is a friend, a sister, a child, a lover. Perhaps she is a wife, a mother. And you have no idea what she's been through, what she's survived, to just be standing there alive.

I Don't Want the World...

I graduated from college with a B.A. in Sociology and a minor in Psychology in 1996.

I would like to take this moment to stress how unimpressive this is - especially if you are my parents or a potential employer. All it really means is that if you want to ask me in what ways Karl Marx was not a comedian, I can tell you. Otherwise, my degree does not strike hard and fast in arming me with employable skills.

Of course, before I was a social science major, I was a math major which, if I had continued down that path, would have left me precisely in the same unemployable boat at the bachelor level, not to mention it would have put our dysfunctional little family in the most awkward position of having to explain two mathematicians in the family (which is probably one too many). But I digress.

Anyway!

I left college in debt, with few employable skills, and bill collectors breathing heavily down my neck. So I did what any self-respecting college grad without a barrel o' monkey laughing skills would do...I got two roommates and a job at an elementary school in a large, urban, public school district as a secretary.

And when I say "secretary", I mean I was the secretary, nurse, psychologist, social worker, nurse, nurse, nurse, mommy, and disciplinarian to 600+ squirming, screaming, children 180 days a year for five years. Don't believe that's what I did?  The district, through some archaic means of monetary distribution decided we could have 3 days a week of educated support staff. This meant we could have a nurse 3 days a week, OR a social worker 3 days a week, OR a psychologist 3 days a week, OR some combination of the 3 that equaled 3 days of educated support staff pay a week.

The school served regular neighborhood children of course. However, it was also a center placement school in our quadrant for severely emotionally disturbed children, a center placement school for severely mentally and physically challenged children, and a center placement for the self-contained highly gifted program. Additionally, our neighborhood was chock full of apartment buildings and complexes with which the Ecumenical Society had worked out several arrangements to house refugees from war-torn countries. Our English as a Second Language population included children from 84 different countries - many of them who'd never been to school and knew nothing outside of extreme poverty and fighting - speaking more than 20 languages.

I took home $10,000 a year.

For five years, I wrote late passes day after day for children whose parents couldn't manage to ever get their child to school on time, I held children throwing full on temper tantrums - who occasionally hit and bit - as we waited for a parent or guardian to come remove them from the premises, I waited patiently for late parents and sometimes the police to come escort an abandoned child home long after I was due to leave, I took alarming temperature readings of children with the flu whose parents couldn't or wouldn't take a day off work to care for their child, sending them to me instead to place ice packs on their foreheads, their necks, trying, sometimes in vain, to bring those fevers down. I was thrown up on, spit on, cursed out by parents and children alike when district policy dictated something they didn't agree with. I held the hands of children whose knees were dislocated, arms broken, keeping them lucid with jokes and songs until paramedics could arrive. I comforted those who came to school bruised from beatings and paid for lunches out of my own meager pockets for those who came to school lethargic from malnutrition.

For five years, I was a minimum wage earning angel.

And I loved it. I loved every minute of it. Contrary to popular belief, I absolutely love kids. I just don't need any of my own. Frankly, mostly because I took care of other people's kids day in and day out for five very long years. Still...I loved it. I love them.

But I couldn't afford it.

Eventually, I was given a great opportunity to move out of the elementary school and into the district's technology department. My aptitude for technology in conjunction with my exceptional people skills landed me a job with the client support team. And I jumped at the chance to make more money while expanding my technical skills.

In the first two years with DoTS, I took home more than I had during the entire five years I worked at the elementary school. My last year on the team, I made more than all of my previous school years' experience combined.

Sad fact.

I look back on that time in my life and I am A) grateful that I was able to get a job that would teach me what I needed to know to do what I do now in an environment I adored but also B) angry that the support staff - the secretaries, bus drivers, bus monitors, janitors, lunch ladies, paraprofessionals - of every single school district in the United States take back seats to the teacher's unions when negotiating pay.

Those people who take care of the basic necessities, safety and, most importantly, care FOR the safety and nurturing of children are not rewarded. They are penalized both in pay and in respect by their employers and their charges.

So...

Last night, I'm sitting about surfing the intertube, minding my own business, when a post from a friend on G+ crosses my path...

A post about Karen Huff Klein, an elderly bus monitor in New York state, whose torment and bullying by several middle school children was filmed and posted to YouTube for all to see and to laugh at as she began to cry.

Caveat: I can't watch this entire video. I only needed 30 seconds before I, myself, started to cry.

But my friend's post wasn't really about the video.

It was about this IndieGoGo campaign - a type of crowd source funding (like kickstarter) - started by a stranger just yesterday asking people to give in hopes of sending Karen on the vacation of a lifetime in exchange for what she'd endured from these so-called children (I call them shitsnacking monsters).

The campaign organizer asked for a mere $5,000.

...

...

...

At the time of this writing, the campaign has raised over $400,000. In less than 36 hours. Every penny (less what IndieGoGo and the government take) of which will go to Karen.

And I'm going to cry again.

Not because I'm angry. Not because I'm sad. Not because I want to shake my fist at the unfairness of the world.

But because Karen - someone who has dedicated her life to the safety and well-being of children not her own - is being provided for in the last years of her life by tens of thousands of strangers who saw her story and said to themselves, "WHOA! That ain't RIGHT!"

All because ONE stranger said, "WHOA! That ain't RIGHT! Let me try to do something about it."

It just goes to show...

One person may not be able to change the world. BUT! With a sense of justice and compassion and a willingness to put it out there for others to see, one might just be able to change the entire life of another human being.

A human being who doesn't deserve to cry at the hands of 12-year-old boys.

I donated. Will you?

Safety Dance

All too often, the question someone who has survived abuse asks herself/himself is "Am I safe?"

That question becomes such a constant, it is subconsciously asked, evaluated, and answered every moment. Every day. It's like living in a never-ending game of some fucked up version of a Milton Bradley board game.

Am I safe? Yes. Move forward one step.

Am I safe? Unknown. Lose your turn.

Am I safe? Unknown. Take 4 steps back.

Am I safe? No. Go to jail. Go to directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

The infinite loop of it is what, I believe, is at the root cause of most of the free-floating anxiety I live with every day. I mean, what must it be like not to question every step, every decision, every interaction, every waking moment with whether or not my safety is at risk?

Truthfully, it's only been in the last 4 years I've been given a respite from it - at least when I'm at home.

This weekend was full of questions from several people - some with similar experiences - that have led me down a road of questioning The Question...Am I Safe?

The first...lunch with a new acquaintance friend who asked me how I can do what I do on my blog - talk about sensitive things, vulnerable things, hard things, without fear. How I can put myself out here time and again so easily.

My answer to her was that after years of being afraid, years of questioning if I was safe to just exist, years of feeling powerless, voiceless, alone, I finally found the strength to live without fear, without shame, without guilt for being the woman I am. I refuse to squash even one ounce of what I've worked so very hard for and that is to feel empowered, to feel loved, to feel unashamed, to feel vulnerable, sad, elated, giddy, stupid, imperfect, human...and to admit it - shout it out loud from the pages of my blog. I am not immune to judgment but now I am strong enough to understand from where that judgment comes. And it's not from me. Thus, it is irrelevant. 

Then, talking with another friend who, during the course of conversation, raised the topic of her uncanny sense of direction. A skill I also possess. I asked her, with some reservation as I'd never broached the subject with her before, if she had any abuse in her past. She confirmed my suspicion. I told her I had a theory about abuse survivors - some of us anyway - who learn early to devise escape routes for ourselves. Some of us recognize and convince ourselves it is important to always know where we are and how to get away from danger without getting lost. We commit while remaining noncommittal. We know how to run. We always have a back up plan [and multiple non-husbands?]. We memorize maps. We subconsciously take note of lefts, rights, u-turns. We know the shortcuts, the back ways, the unmapped, rutted, dirt roads. Need solid directions with landmarks noted? Ask an abuse survivor. Chances are good we'll get you where you need to be in the best way possible.

Later, I talked with another new friend about our shared experiences. Talked about how we didn't know what would be a PTSD trigger. What would send us reeling. We talked about that core of steel we have - the one no one can access...not even ourselves. We talked about what was in there, imprisoned. Lonely, afraid, and...Sad. We acknowledged to one another that no matter how much therapy we paid for, no matter how much work we did, no matter how much we attempted to down play our experiences, those experiences would always ALWAYS play a factor in our lives. That small, desperately frightened voice echoing up from that core of steel ALWAYS there asking the question...

Am I safe? (twist)

Am I safe? (twist)

Am I safe? (twist)

Still later...a friend and I were hanging out - a friend I trust - and he was playing around, teasing me with words. It rubbed me the wrong way.

Fine. It triggered off a round.

It's no surprise really that, after the conversations I'd recently had, I'd find myself sensitive and vulnerable. Especially when it was out of character for him to act this way. But when I found myself welling up with tears, I retreated - you know, as I do - attempting in vain to hide the hurt that lurked.

When I came back, what was a surprise was the voice that came out of me...the voice, sounding like my own, but not my own...so much younger, so plaintive and vulnerable, bubbling up from that steel core asking, "Why are you being mean to me? Did I do something wrong?"

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"I didn't know," he said. "Talk to me," he said. "You have to tell me," he said. 

And so I did.

And I was safe. (twist twist twist) 

Take one step forward.

Maybe I'm getting well.

Driving Me Crazy

I've been writing two books consecutively for the last several weeks. That's the excuse I'm giving for my lack of posting on the blog during much of April and May anyway (but it's true).

One of them, the one that overtook me by surprise while I was busy working on the first and still maintaining some kind of blogging schedule, is a non-fiction road trip through my past, weaving together anecdotes to document just how I got here, right now, an agoraphobe unable to drive myself on the freeway or at night.

Yes. I am agoraphobic.

No, I'm not afraid to leave my house.

What I am afraid of is leaving my house and getting behind the wheel, having a massive panic attack, fainting, and killing myself and other people.

According to the National Institute of Health, panic disorder with agoraphobia "is an anxiety disorder in which a person has attacks of intense fear and anxiety. There is also a fear of being in places where it is hard to escape, or where help might not be available."

Like, you know, when I'm driving...especially alone.

It had gotten so bad there for awhile I wouldn't take the freeway at all. Then the anxiety began rearing its nasty head while I was driving on surface streets too. Eventually, I discovered I never felt at all safe behind the wheel to the point that I was petrified just contemplating making a left hand turn into oncoming traffic.   

Fabulous.

The last couple of weeks have been better. I've been able to get on the highway most days - at least for a few minutes - and, occasionally, can make it all the way to work without diverting onto the side roads. On Saturday, I even drove at night.

Which is where this entry actually starts.

There was supposed to be a LAN party and BBQ at Denhac Saturday evening after a full day of classes at the space. Unfortunately, the 95º heat had subdued pretty much everyone's enthusiasm for sitting inside in front of a laptop and so the LAN part of the party got cancelled. But the BBQ was still on...at least the grill was on and there was meat to eat...and I wanted to go because socializing is what I do. However, Acr0nym had much to do that afternoon and plans later in the evening so asking him to pick me up and take me home was more than a little impractical.

So...I decided to drive myself knowing full well I'd be driving home well after dark.

THAT was a huge deal.

So that night, I'm sitting up at Denhac, talking to Spux, telling him what a HUGE deal it was that I'd driven and an acquaintance friend interrupts and asks, "Seriously. Exactly what is the big deal with driving? It's not like you live very far."

I'd like to think she didn't mean to sound snide, condescending, or rude. But, truthfully, the way she said it was rather off-putting and I was kind of offended.

Regardless, I tried to explain it to her the best I could. She then asked if I'd been in a car accident recently - which, of course, I was in a car accident just over 2 years ago now - and when I confirmed her suspicion she just nodded and moved on to another conversation. Like the car accident explained everything.

Which it doesn't.

Not at all.

One of the things I'm attempting to convey in the book I'm writing is that panic disorder - specifically panic disorder with agoraphobia - isn't anything like an anxiety attack. I've lived with anxiety for so long, the only time I truly understand the level of anxiety I experience on a daily basis is in those few, rare, brief moments - usually after coming down from a particularly vicious PTSD episode - when I'm not anxious at all. Then I realize at what level of anxiety I function nearly all the time.

However, an anxiety attack is nothing...NOTHING...compared to a panic attack. Did I mention nothing? Because I mean it's not even in the same produce department with the apples and oranges. It's not even in the same grocery store.

A panic attack feels like...death is immediately imminent. A panic attack feels like you are disconnected from your physical self...a self that would just randomly swing the steering wheel into oncoming traffic just to get it over with while your mental self fights against that very thing. A panic attack comes with heart palpitations, feeling faint, rapid, ragged breathing, and an assured sense of doom. A panic attack makes you believe you are crazy. At the height of a panic attack, when I'm terrified I will deliberately cause a car accident by swinging that wheel, I feel 100% crazy. Wouldn't it be crazy to do such a thing...cause a pile up on the highway? Because that's what I think I'm about to do as soon as I merge into traffic. 

You may think you've had a panic attack in the past. But, until you actually do? You have no idea what it is like. It is literally the worst feeling in the world. A panic attack is an anxiety attack to the ^nth power. I can't even quantify it, it is that bad. 

And that has nothing to do with the car accident I had - a car accident in which I wasn't at fault in the slightest - and wrote about the subsequent anxiety it caused here.

Anyway!

Yeah so, where was I?

Oh! Yeah. So the fact that I drove myself to a location 5 miles from home when I knew I was going to have to get myself home after dark was a BIG deal. 

But, you know, I'd been feeling good for a couple of weeks and, along with that feeling, I was also complacent. Feeling as though I'd conquered the panic. To my chagrin, with that sense of well being also came a drought of words to offer up to the book about feeling bad. I hadn't made any progress - I hadn't even opened the file - for several days. I figured I was over it.

HA!

My friendly acquaintance re-opened a can of wordy worms. While I haven't experienced another panic attack since she asked me about it, I did feel affronted by her nonchalant response toward why I don't typically drive. As though I had to defend myself and defend Acr0nym and a couple of others who have been more than willing to drive my ass around while I've worked my way through this...THING. A thing I can't even describe and can't even say for certain is in the past tense.

I guess I should thank her.

Because, last night, I sat at my computer and wrote for several hours. I wasn't writing deliberately. I wasn't editing as I moved along. It was stream-of-consciousness writing. Something I never do outside of my paper journal (oh yes, I also keep a paper journal of all those hedonistic thoughts that should never see the light of the internet). I wrote and wrote...about panicking, about driving, about non-husbands and commitment and fear. I wrote about wandering through miles of underground drainage tunnels in Southern California...about Andy, about Travis, about love. I wrote about happiness and transparency...about making a difference in other peoples' lives.

And while none of it is suitable for consumption by the public, re-reading it after I was done, I was struck by the connections, the correlations, the revelations.

I realized...I'm just now - after all this time - piecing all of it together.

And that seemed profound...the pieces and parts coming together as though my life were a puzzle.

So...thanks to my friendly acquaintaince. I choose to believe you didn't intend to be dismissive and now the book is no longer de-railed. We're right on track and right on schedule. Your comments + stream-of-consciousness writing = good on me. All systems go.

e

Driving Without a License

Have you ever had that feeling...the one where you feel as though you're driving pedal to the metal, balls to the wall down the freeway when the horrifying realization that you never actually learned to drive slams into your brain like a brick wall?

No? Just me then I guess. Because that pretty much sums up how I've felt about life lately.  Somehow, someone decided it was a good idea to allow me to get behind the wheel and actually drive this meat-wagon around without a license.

Mostly, I do a pretty good job of it, have a great time doing it, and can even, usually, parallel park. But there have been times...times like...

When I dove headfirst into the SoCal punk rock life...climbed my first barbed wire fence and subsequently tore my drawers.

When I belly-flopped smack dab into the middle of the local leather scene, quit my job, got rid of all my stuff and moved up to the mountains to experience the life 24/7 before hightailing it back to Denver after only a few disastrous months.

And now. Having danced along the periphery of another counter-culture for awhile - a counter-culture known to be occasionally full of dickery and one-up-manship, I finally kicked off my flip flops and did my best cannonball from a 30-foot cliff right into the eye of a hurricane.

And all of a sudden, the icy-cold knowledge that I can't drive hit me.

Let's face it. I couldn't hack my way out of a cardboard box if you left the lid open and handed me a machete fresh off the whetstone. I'm just THAT good. Heh.

Still...

Apparently I do have something going for me.

I make people laugh.

I make people talk.

I make people like me.

I make people trust me.

I make them love me.

For no reason.

I'm just that good.

And I'm gonna be fine.

Snippets From the Last Couple of Weeks

aka Brain Dump...

1) I've acquired a 4th non-husband, TC. He's Acr0nym's brother which seems just slightly incestuous, doesn't it? But it makes sense to me. I mean, in his words, he already puts up with my shit anyway, he might as well have the title...and the shirt (once I've designed it).

That makes 4 non-husbands and a work spouse - a work spouse who is quickly becoming a non-husband too especially after the last two weekends of insanity and awesome chaos.

Collecting non-husbands is totally normal...right?

2) Saturday the 12th was the GeekShow - a fundraiser to benefit denhac, the Denver Hackerspace.

Designed by Spux and shamelessly stolen from the denhac website

While we didn't come anywhere close to raising enough money to install air conditioning at the space, we certainly raised awareness about its existence. Given that it was a rainy, sopping wet mess of a night, it was wildly successfully attended and people are already clamoring for more GeekShow goodness.

Highlights of the night included:

The Jacob's Ladder built by DK at the very last possible second when our scheduled Jacob's Ladder provider had to bail due to an unfortunate family emergency.

DK and I discussing the specs of the cattle prod he offered to build me for Defcon gooning...

Just a little voltage, k? Hee hee. Seriously. That's exactly what I was saying to DK here. Photo by Acr0nym.

A lot of top shelf gin for an unbelievably low price...thanks, 3 Kings Tavern!

DJ Another Mike providing stupidly awesome nerdcore and other geeky music for our pleasure.

The closeup illusionist stylings of Garret DePass who sincerely has me fooled about where that dollar coin went.

The fabulous MC job provided by one of Denver's fab musicians, Ukulele Loki.

(Hee hee. See if you can spot Spux in this video. Hint: starting right 'round 1:56.)

And I don't even know what all else. No, really. I don't even know what all else because I'd had gin and also because when you molest the bald head of a relatively new acquaintance who's just becoming a friend, you keep that shit to yourself.

Moving on...

3) This past Saturday was the 50th birthday celebration for one Megajoules and Gigawatts - the best of the best Mad Mad Scientists. It. Was. Awesome.

Not only did I get to hug on and talk to a very old friend circa the Alabama Years, who is, in fact, still one of Alabama's best friends and who, graciously, more than graciously, agreed to drive my butt home when Acr0nym bailed early, there were a number of people who came out that I rarely get to see in a social setting. I like this as it gives me even more bald heads to molest.

It was, I would say, an epic night, an epic party. I suspect I crushed on a lot of you that night if only for your all-out geekery and willingness to play hacky sack with an 8" dong (a gag gift to the birthday boy). Just sayin'.

Again with the moving on...

4) We've taken a brief hiatus from posting more episodes of Sharp Pointy Objects because:

A) Bomb Betsy's episodes 1 and 2 took a lot out of me

B) Acr0nym needed time to prepare for Geekshow

But we've got an episode in production now about goth/club culture featuring the input of the vocalist of the band, Synapse:

We've also scheduled a recording with some of the boys from Night Muzick - a pyrotechnic outfit that produces highly coveted fireworks displays all around Colorado and beyond.

Having said that and given that I clearly have access to people who run the gamut from transplant recipients, sex workers, semi-famous musicians, terrorist bombing victims, and pyros...what would you like to hear next from SPO?

That's what's been up. Mostly. You know...with the exception of what is TMI.

There's kinda been a lot going on that is TMI.

TMI

Several months ago, a friend of mine, without comment, sent me a link to a blog.

Based on the blog name, I knew it was NSFW but I had no idea what it might contain or why it had been passed on to me. At least, not until I got home that evening and began reading through some of the entries.

The blog, which shall remain nameless here, was an account of the author's *ahem* escapades with various people...in detail...along with her own psychoanalysis of each partner and other sundry content. And, as I read, it became abundantly clear why the link had been sent to me. The people the author was discussing, at least some of them, were clearly people I knew. Even though she did not name any names, they were easily identifiable by the descriptions she so liberally (thoughtlessly) disclosed.

Whoa.

Now, certainly there are people out there writing about their own escapades and shenanigans on a public forum and I don't generally take issue with the practice as long as there is clear warning prior to entering the site that it is not safe for work or children. I particularly appreciate it when the author goes to great lengths not to disclose personal identifiers about themselves so as not to accidentally out someone else. 

And, while it isn't my bag to share locker room stories with the masses, to each his own. It's the interweb. It happens.

However, when I inquired about how in the world my friend had stumbled across this blog, her answer shocked me. She said, "Oh well, [redacted] is posting all the links to her entries on Facebook."

WHAT?!

I was highly irritated.

Not only was the woman posting intimate, easily identifiable information about private, sometimes unflattering, and potentially embarrassing events - some that may have had severe negative consequences for the other parties, she was making sure everyone on her friend list was fully aware of what she'd been getting up to and with whom...without their knowledge or consent.

I wish I was kidding.

I've not been able to look this woman in the face or exchange polite words with her since. She has lost all my respect and I will not associate myself with someone who has such little regard for other people or their privacy. She cares nothing about consent - something I firmly believe extends far outside the reaches of the bedroom. 

Last week then, in another internet forum - not quite as public as Facebook but certainly public enough - another woman disclosed some shenanigans about another person who is quite well known to the forum at large...except this time, she named names.

Disgusted does not even begin to describe what I'm thinking or feeling.

What in hell is wrong with these people?!

Have they never heard of discretion, respect, consent?!

GAH!!!

Apparently not.

There is no excuse for this in my book. Whether the motivation was to bolster their own reputation/self-esteem or publicly destroy the reputation of someone else, was an attempt to gain some credibility, or was merely a drastically stupid lapse in good judgment...

They failed. Miserably.

All that they've accomplished, as far as I'm concerned, is to make themselves a laughing stalk and someone I have no desire to know. They've certainly lost a power advocate, a potential friend and ally in me.

I have been successfully unsubscribed.

Look, Ma! No Hands!

I've done some spectacularly weird crap in my life.

And my mom, Blind Betsy, probably ought to have seen some of it coming along about the time I dyed my hair eggplant purple in junior high. Instead, she paid top dollar for me to have the most outrageous hair in town and simply said, "If the worst thing you ever do is dye your hair the color of an Easter egg, the least I can do is ensure it's done properly by a professional."

Unfortunately for her, hair dye would barely scratch the surface of a long string of worrisome interests that caught and held my attention.

In her defense, I am her youngest and, while my older siblings certainly had their moments, none of them dug nearly so deep into particularly taboo sub-cultures - the same ones into which I always seem to manage to dive head first. How was she to know I would be a deep-end swimmer in a pool of wade pool dwellers? Maybe because I could dive almost as soon as I could walk???

Anyway!

The point is I've seen and experienced, studied and been fascinated by, activities and people who others might cross the street to avoid. I've also rarely hesitated to share those same moments of my life with Blind Betsy who, in hindsight, likely wishes she hadn't issued an open invitation to disclose my activities and proclivities quite so freely. But she did and I did and so here we are.

I don't think about it much...how much I tell her. But then, Friday afternoon, it dawned on me...there is nothing left I could say, short of "I've been arrested and charged with a class A felony" (not that that's likely...still) that would surprise or shock her.

Witness...

Blind Betsy:  What are your plans for the weekend?

Just Jane:     Oh! Uh...well...Locksport.

Blind Betsy:  What's Locksport?

Just Jane:     Um...we practice picking locks...for fun and sport. 

Blind Betsy:  Oh! [not missing a beat] Can you pick the lock to your own house?

Just Jane:     Not yet. I'm not quite that good.

Blind Betsy:  Huh. Well what good is it if you can't pick your own lock in the event you forget your keys?

She has a point.

She's also a very cool mom.

I'm also fairly certain, no matter how off-the-wall my interests seem to range, she now takes it all in stride, feigns interest when she has no idea what I'm spouting off about, and understands that, at 40, I'm probably not going to die from my past times. Not only that but, at some point, she came to the realization that there was little cause for worry. She had, in fact, raised me right and had, in fact, bestowed upon me a modicum of common sense. 

So, the next day, when I'm talking to my oldest sister, Rache, after we'd discussed the issues at hand with my father as it were, and she begins to fill in the sketchy details of my beloved nephew's shenanigans over the course of the last few months, I say to her, "Rache? Really. There is a light at the end of this tunnel. Sincerely. Call Mom."

Because I was 19 once too, you know. And I went off half cocked at 19 too. I filled Blind Betsy to brimming with fear more than once, I'm certain, but I came through it fine. I managed my 20's and my 30's and, thus far, my 40's with just the one scar on my face. Not too shabby for some of the battles I've waged.

That's how I know JR will be just fine too.

He'll be just fine. If I have anything to say about it, that is.

On second thought...where'd I put that rope to hogtie him until he's 30???

KHAAAAAAAAN!

Have you ever been to a Con? 

For those of you who have no idea what I mean, a "con" is a convention centered around some kind of geekery...Comic-Con, Dragon*Con, and any number of other cons that cater to the masses of all manner of geeks everywhere. There are cons for anime, comics, gamers, Bronies (people - mostly grown men - who are into My Little Pony in a BIG way and no, I'm totally not making that shit up), BDSM, Cosplay, Star Trek...if it can be geeked out on, there's a con for it. 

Is there a Rule 34 equivalent to cons??? I digress.

I've been to a couple of cons held annually in Denver. 1,000+ attendees, relatively small and chill, and a lot of fun.

But I've never been to a large con ever. And I've wanted to go to two for a long time...desperately.

Dragon*Con and...

DEF CON.

Unfortunately, I will likely never get to go to Dragon*Con. Not unless something drastically changes with my employment. As much as I've examined my options at every angle for a month of Sundays, the timing of that particular con sucks. No ifs, ands, or buts.

But DEF CON? That is another matter all together.

Now...if you don't know what DEF CON is - and I'm guessing most of you probably don't but didn't want to click through on the link because you are absolutely riveted by me - DEF CON is one of the longest, continuously running, largest hacker conventions in the world. 

Oh yes. I said it. Hackers.

It's actually nothing like this. There is a whole lot more liquor and a whole lot less rollerskating, for one (or is it two??? And please, Jeebus, don't let TC on rollerskates). And uh...a whole lot less spinning (that's not liquor-induced).

It's (hacker) not a dirty word, you know, no matter what mainstream media would have you believe. Frankly, there are an awful lot of hackers out there who are protecting YOU from the security fallacies committed by your banks, your schools, your employers, yourselves.

Don't believe me?

Meet The Tiger Team...a few of my friends - yes, they really are that cool, brilliant, and adorable in person. (If you want more of Nickerson and Ryan, check out their podcast, Exotic Liability.)

Don't think the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security recruit the DEF CON attendees?

Think again.

Anyway!

I've wanted to go to DEF CON for a long time. And this year, THIS YEAR, especially, I wanted to go because it is DEF CON XX - 20 years! - 20 since it began. There is sure to be an epic number of attendees and ultimate shenanigans.

So, yesterday, on tenterhooks, I went to my boss - terrified she'd say no - to ask for the time off.

She immediately took out her (paper) calendar and marked off my vacation request stating, "Really, there isn't a better time for you to be gone."

My thoughts exactly.

So...

Guess who has two thumbs and is going to DEF CON 20?

THIS girl!

I KNOW! Right?!

Not only that but, because of her connections, guess who has two thumbs and is in the position - through her, frankly, extraordinary connections - of Goon Squading the con? Something seriously out-of-con-geekery-trol?

THIS girl!

Yeah.

I've got my riding crop at the ready.

Heading toward DEF CON. BRB.

DEF...KHAAAAAAAAAN!

Go Ahead. Make My Day. (hee hee)

Given that I grew up in Wild West Wyoming, you'd probably think it's a safe assumption to make that I was born with a gun in my hand.

Of course, you would be wrong.

I didn't hold a gun in my hand (a 9 millimeter) until I was 17. I didn't dry fire a gun (a .357 Magnum) until I was 21. I didn't learn how to load a clip and fire live rounds (from a Glock .45) until I was in my mid-30's and dating a former cop.

Each one of those experiences terrified me.

All I knew about guns, until Jason took me to the firing range and forced me to practice, was what I'd seen in the movies. Guns are used to kill people. I don't like killing people. I don't want to do it accidentally. I'm sorry enough when it comes to cutting up bell peppers with a chef's knife. However, he and I were talking about moving in together at the time and he would not consider leaving me in a house alone with a firearm I wasn't able or prepared to use.

Fair enough.

We broke up not too long afterward (but not because of the gun).

Up until then, my stance on guns and gun control was decidedly on the side of anti-gun. Guns = Bad. Bad People have guns. Bad People do bad things with guns. Get rid of all the guns. Make more laws. Problem solved.

Heh.

But Jason was the first to turn me around in my thinking. Even though my fear of guns increased significantly after he and I went to the firing range one time - the experience shook me to the core - my thoughts were starting to shift. And then, as my social circles widened dramatically, as I became exposed to and befriended a number of people from all walks of life, as I began having dialogues with more and more people - people with guns, people with concealed weapon permits...sane, rational, responsible people - I began to understand the holes and flaws in my long held belief regarding the evilness of firearms even if my all out terror of guns didn't diminish.

And then I moved in with Lex - former military, firm believer in his right to bear arms.

It didn't occur to me I was, at the ripe age of 36, living with my first handgun until he mentioned it in passing - I was probably doing dishes and not thoroughly listening - and I was all like, "Wait...what? Oh. Um. Don't tell me where it lives. I don't want to know."

It took several months of conversation, several months of trust building, several months of breathing deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth to avoid panicking before I was even ready to see it or know where he kept it.

He waited patiently for me. When I finally broke down and asked to see it, to know where it lived, he was ready for me. He walked me through the process of ensuring it was unloaded (he unloaded it, I didn't). He sat with it while we talked, my eyes trained on it, apparently waiting for it to take on a life of its own and start shooting at will. It didn't and I didn't die.

That wasn't the a-ha moment about gun control for me though. With Lex, everything is safe, controlled. He's got a handle on things...he's got a handle on me. Him having a gun made complete sense and I didn't mind.

The a-ha moment came during a conversation with a close friend who confided she had a handgun and a license to carry a concealed weapon. At the time, she was a college student and, at the time, the Colorado legislature had just banned guns from all college campuses as part of the backlash from the mass shooting at Virginia Tech a few years prior. She said, "In the event of a college campus shooting, the Colorado legislature has just signed our death warrants. Seung-Hui Cho didn't care about gun laws when he open fired on campus.  He cared about killing people. He wouldn't have cared whether guns were allowed on campus or not. Laws like these don't stop mad men. Thus, the rest of us law-abiding citizens who won't break the new law and carry on campus are effectively rendered defenseless. I have a gun. I am trained and am competent to use it. I am prepared to use it to defend myself and others from harm. And now I am told to disarm myself. Great."

Oh.

Ah.

Oh.

Oh shit. She's right.

*light bulb*

Since then, I've hungered for information about guns and gun laws. I met Kelli - a vocal advocate for open carry - someone who knows the ins and outs of gun laws as they vary from state to state. Kelli who is cautious to a fault (is there such a thing?) when it comes to gun safety. Kelli who exercises his right to open carry his firearm whenever the law allows. Kelli, who is willing and prepared to be harassed by the police every time he exercises his right for the sole purpose of proving that responsible gun ownership exists...that the second amendment to the US Constitution is his right as an American citizen exists.

Since then, I've invited #himself from upstairs to show me how one of his handguns works. I've loaded the (bullet-less...I am me, after all) clip, chambered a (non-existent) round, released the safety, and dry-fired in the direction of a rogue table lamp multiple times. I even demonstrated my prowess for Lex. Lex kinda just nodded, rolled his eyes, and offered praise *laughing*.

But...I'm ready for the firing range. I think.

Something about that conversation with my college student friend changed me. Changed my mind. All of a sudden, it was clear to me. Bad People will do Bad Things with guns - regardless of what the laws read. Am I willing to die because a Bad Person doesn't care if it's against the law to have a gun and I, well, do? Am I willing to continue to live in a house with a firearm and depend on someone else to defend me if a Bad Person decides to break in and try to hurt me? Hurt Lex? Hurt *gasp* Vinny?

Guns are a Big Deal in the United States. That isn't going to change. And even if the federal legislature is able to overturn the second amendment to the US Constitution and the Supreme Court upholds it, there are still guns guns guns galore. Except then they'd all be in the hands of the Bad People.

Lucy posted the other day about being scared shitless in her bed, thinking an intruder had entered her home while she laid there alone and helpless. She called her husband 1,800 miles away to "protect" her...her gut reaction.

I commented on her post with the following: This feminist would have totally done the same thing. Being a feminist doesn't mean being exempt from fear. As women, we know there are many monsters who go bump in our nights. Lucky for me, if Lex weren't home (and, let's face it, Lex is ALWAYS home), I'd be calling modchen (all 90 terrifying pounds of her) and #himself to come rescue me.

At the moment I clicked "publish comment" I knew I couldn't depend on Lex, on modchen (beware the tiny dynamo), #himself, or Acr0nym to help me. Not when every second counts. I knew then I needed to learn to be proficient and confident in gun management all on my own. You do know Bad People (and zombies) are everywhere, right?

Gun management is a skill...like baking, knitting, kung fu. If I'm unafraid to souffle, shouldn't it also be true that I should be unafraid to lock and load?

Guns don't kill people. People kill people.

While I do not oppose waiting periods or background checks, those seem to me to be sound laws, I need to know how to defend myself against those with guns. All those with guns. Most notably the Bad People.

Especially while it's my right...nay, my responsibility...to know.

Hee hee. Lookie, Jack! It's the Jane of Songs!