When I was married, we owned a gun. It was a Glock 19, nine-millimeter. It was compact and virtually indestructible. Each clip held fifteen rounds, sixteen if you had one in the chamber, which any responsible gun owner will tell you not to do. We used steel-jacketed rounds for target practice, which means, the bullet would go through a victim and hit the person behind them. They would probably not die, but they’d have to go to the hospital. Someone could do that to over sixteen people if they were so inclined, and no one would be able to stop them until they paused to reload (which only takes a second or two).

To buy the gun, we went to the Silver Eagle gun range in Virginia, said, “We want a gun.” Kate knew the make and model, so we walked out of there a couple of minutes later. We did not have to do a background check or give any indication we were not going on a shooting spree or even sign something (maybe saying we weren’t planning on shooting anybody?). The only thing they asked of us was the payment.

I’m telling you this because that one-time purchase was easier than the hoops I have to jump through every single month to get a psychiatric medication I require to function.

USA! USA! USA!