I felt like Rambo as I walked outside with a 12-gague Remington shotgun in each hand, a pack strapped to my back with 1 1/2 oz.shells, and a Smith and Wesson police issue 357. around my waist. And now I can't help but continually press my right shoulder in a slightly massaging fashion, as if the pain feels good. Every time I pulled the trigger of the shotgun, all 50-something times, the 7.5 lbs. would fly back into my shoulder with the engergy equalling 45.9 (ft. lb.). What does that mean? That means that my right shoulder is black and blue and hurts every time I move my arm. But it's a good release of emotions/energy/frustration. There's something about pulling back the hammer of a handgun, slowly squeezing the trigger, and feeling the contained explosion force the 38. mag out of the barrel that makes you feel better. Or maybe that's just me.
So there I am, laying in my bed "massaging" my shoulder, and I notice something that really disturbs me. There is a new shadow on my ceiling. I lived in that room for years, and now that I am back home I noticed a shadow that I have never noticed before. It's right above my bed, towards the window, and caused, I'm sure, by my blinds. But I couldn't help but wonder what caused this indescript shape that I never saw before. Maybe a new plant grew in front of a light we have outside. Maybe I was never really that observant in previous years sleeping in that bed. Or maybe there is a huge, flesh-eating monster outside my window waiting till I go to sleep.
I'm re-reading all of Chuck Palahniuk's books. I've finished off Fight Club for the second time, and am now getting close to finishing Survivor again. This is odd because I have never re-read a book. I have never read a book that so intrigued me that I felt I needed a second reading to catch details and understand better. But now I'm doing just that...and waiting ever so impatiently for the soon to be released Lullabye. This guy is a genius of prose.
Am I rambling? Do I do this allot? I'm sorry.
I'll go read more of Survivor now.
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