So, despite repeat conversations with my treatment team, my husband has done a piss poor job locking up guns. The shotguns are off the wall, sure, but now they’re just in cases on the floor. Because, godammit, when I want to blow the top of my skull off, I will surely be vexed by zippers!
Good thing I’d rather not use a shotgun anyways, but I’ve got a trick.
I’ve manufactured a state of increased poverty that prevents me from having the petty cash and gasoline to be able to go buy ammo. I bought a new car. A new plasma cutter. Toys to keep me occupied, hopeful, and strapped.
I do this because I know a great many people that would be mightily pissed at me if I were to scratch that itch inside my skull. For mysterious reasons, they like me better alive.
I must be prettier with my eyestalks still on the inside. Can’t think of any other viable reasons.
But, as a result of my scheme, I am consistently too poor to do things like hang out shopping, get dinner, etc. So I get to watch the people who love me get more agitated with my presence.
It’s a kind of silent irony.
The kind I’ll never mention.