Desperately Seeking Shooting Situation

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone to die. That’s not how I roll; too much karma attached to that kind of wishful thinking. However, I have always had a killer desire (no pun intended) to find myself in a shooting situation. It dials back to when I was younger; sometimes, when I would be lying on the floor pretending to have passed out hoping that Casey would call an ambulance, I would imagine it was from a gun shot wound. It would always be in a non-vital place like my shoulder, or my leg, but I would imagine I had lost just enough blood that I would lose consciousness. My last words before rescue would always be profound and full of wisdom, like most middle schoolers are instilled with, and then I would pass out and wait for Casey to find me and freak out about the morbid jokes I would play on him.
Like most things in my life, I blame a great deal of my wishing for a shooting situation on television. I’ve made it a point to watch as many shows involving shootings so that I can become well-versed on typical shooting plot lines. Luckily, between my Mamaw Cora and my mom, I had all of the soap operas covered when I could be home during the week. In the later years when tv viewing was more liberal, I picked up Grey’s Anatomy and One Tree Hill. I even made a personal exception and watched Desperate Housewives for the episode where Jackie from Roseanne guest starred and shot everyone in that supermarket. One day, when someone went postal in my own life, I would step up and be the Derek Shepherd or Keith Scott or whatever Felicity Huffman’s character’s name was. They all tried to talk down the shooter, and only one of them died from it. The odds were in my favor.
The idea has followed me around for years now. One boy that used to sit behind me in middle school was convicted for shooting a couple in some town an hour or so away. I thought of all the times that he kicked my chair and I nearly had an emotional orgasm just thinking that I could have been a target. I know he hated me, but I could have talked him down. I could have explained why it wasn’t worth it, and I could have saved the entire school. Surely it would be adapted into a television special, and I was confident that Jonathan Taylor Thomas would play me.
I never wished for anything to happen while I was in high school because I knew the odds of someone bringing a gun to South-Doyle were abnormally high anyways. Between the thug nasties that lived by the river and the uncomfortable number of country folk that had access to shotguns (myself included), I’m actually kind of shocked that I didn’t get a gun put in my face on a daily basis. I knew they were on campus; we all did. Too many people shot things in their free time for there not to be. I was honestly just waiting for the day that someone would whip that bad boy out. One day, a boy did bring a dismantled pistol to school to supposedly shoot his girlfriend, but I was sadly on route to a math competition. And honestly, we never were the premier public school of Knox County, but I did expect more than the thinking I’m going to bring a broken gun to shoot someone. Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy nothing happened, but seriously…
One of the appeals of being a Resident Assistant in college was the idea that I would be right in the line of fire (yet again, no pun intended… just a terrible plethora of cliches). The idea seemed magical until one girl on campus starting posting a lot of Eminem lyrics and posting statuses about how she hated everyone. I mean, Eminem is no Marilyn Manson, but I was picking up on what she was selling. So, we started talking. I figured that the allure of talking her down sans gun was probably better than talking her down with gun in hand. Same results: less consequence. She told me everything was going to be okay because she was about to get a recording contract, so I just kind of left her be so that she could go be her Mariah Carey self. The next day, I told what I thought was an authority figure of the lyrics and the possibility to the response, “Oh, it’s okay. She’s transferring at the end of this semester.” Sweet response, bro. That only gives her like two weeks to snipe campus. Thanks, brah.
The night after our conversation, social networks exploded with news of gunshots around campus. I thought to myself Damn it, Justin. You called it, and no one listened. No one ever listens to you, and somehow you are always right. Go. Go and fix this mess. So naturally, I went toward the sound of the gunshots. Accompanied by two of my favorite lesbians armed with air soft guns, we ran cross campus in the middle of the night. A police car stopped us and told us to get inside. Oh shit, I was right! There was a shooter held up in an apartment… off campus. Not a student. Well, kind of. We slinked back to our dorm, and for old times sake, I laid in the floor and pretended to be shot one more time. I, then, actually fell asleep and missed class the next day because of it. Close enough for me.
Some people tell me that my fascinations is an utter disrespect for human life. Some people have even told me that there’s something wrong with me. But you see, I’ve never wanted anyone to die. That’s just too sad. I have, though, really wanted a situation that would be suitable for a network prime-time season finale. I don’t think it’s too much for a young man to ask for a somewhat life-threatening situation that he can single handedly get under control. But until then, I’ll just continue lying in my floor pretending to get shot, and when anyone walks in and asks what I’m doing (which has happened), I’ll just stick to the regular response. I fell down. But we’ll all know what’s going on… I’ll be rehearsing those final, poetic moments before the show goes off until September… or something like that.

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