I mean, actually sick. A pain right in the center of my body, just under the sternum. And I still can't believe I did it.
I agreed to let my Baby Marine borrow one of my pistols and a few mags for over the weekend, while he and his girlfriend go camping. Sure, I can spare it, but it makes me sick. For a bit there, I was actually thinking that 'well, if it is God's Will that they die, by criminal, or by cougar, who am I to interfere in the Great Circle of Life?'
Ugh, I may puke. I have never been separated from one of my Babies for this long. And she's unregistered, too. A clean piece. Oh, shut up, Bane, or you're gonna have to run to the bathroom and hurl.
I told him 'Never Again'...and, well, it remains to be seen if I can physically part with it when he drops by tomorrow. Likely, I'll just make him drag me outside, attached to it like a mother to her child, and then cry as they drive away.
It has been awhile since I have dealt with emotional pain at this level. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go assure all of my other firearms that Daddy still loves them, and he will never abandon them.
Oh, fuck. He might need a knife, too. But not the Bowie! Or the Gerber! Fuck you, punk, buy your own knife.