A thirst for blood and guts

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Being February, I thought it might be time to take down the Christmas lights. Everything went well until I decided to use a knife to cut through some cable ties. There were four I had to slice through, five if you count my finger. I caught the length of the blade on my index finger as I cut through cable tie number three, swore then finished setting the reindeer free.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

There was blood shed, my friends. Blood and lots of swearing.

It could be that the suburb I live in has developed a taste for blood. Some kind of vampire-like thirst, to sustain the growth in the park and the trees and the huge spiders that appear in the front yard overnight and the mysterious cows that occasionally come to play in the front yard. You see, in the wee hours of Saturday (1:30am), we were awoken to the sound of gunfire. Yes, really! We totally shat ourselves and my beloved called the police, who apparently did a drive through the neighbourhood but went back to the station because they didn’t hear anything.

And this is the thing. When I told of the gunshots on Facebook, there was a real lack of surprise. Suggestions that it could be a signal regarding drugs being available, that it could have been someone burning out a car (but we very much heard definite gun reloading clicks between explosions). There was some surprise, but nowhere near what I would have expected.

And it makes me sad that this kind of thing has become accepted as normal.

Do people not realise that guns can kill?

I am one of those people who has zero respect for that perceived need for guns. I could be about to be very offensive to some, but I’ve noticed it tends to be the same “type” of people who get a thrill out of hunting or gun ownership. And to be honest, it’s not a “type” that garners much respect from me. Pretending that killing is sport is just pathetic. Because there is always going to some fool that takes it too far. And when you combine a fool with a gun, the result is never going to be any good. So if you’re a gun person, just don’t tell me. Please. Just carry on feeling like a big strong person.

I might have gotten a little off topic there. But that’s the thing about life. It doesn’t tend to stick to plan.

So instead of spending the day weeding the front garden, I’m nursing a very sore finger and using Scouty as a foot rest. She doesn’t mind.

Maybe it’s less about dodging the punches of life, and more about living in a way that dances with them.

Your thoughts?

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