Carol’s got a gun.

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Yup.

So this is how it happens. Redneckedness mooshed with several cocktails and a wedding anniversary inexplicably somehow led to a loaded firearm as a present. Nothing screams I Love You like a .380 Ruger, right?

Oh boy.

You have to realize. Miss Carol didn’t even like touching guns until we moved out to the end-of-nowhere- but we’ve had friends over for alcohol and ammo weekends and she’s slowly gotten (I hate that word, but it’s a real word- I checked) into it. 

I figured what the hell. She’d had the chance to test fire several weapons and she liked the little Ruger the best, so I bought her one. Redneckery run rampant, you know?

But now she’s one scary little bitch. What the hell happens to chicks when they get their hands on guns?

So yeah.

Carol’s got a gun. (You can sing it to Aerosmith’s Janies got a gun- it works)

And maybe I’m wishing I hadn’t bought her bullets. 

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