Concealed

There are a lot of difference between me and you, which is why I’m a cop, and you’re a whatever. You live your life based on probability, I live mine based on possibility. That’s the reason you put your slippers on to walk out to the street to get your mail, and I put on my gun. You think, “What are the odds someone is going to start shooting people at Target today?” I think, “If some disgruntled, out of work, stock-boy decides to shoot up the local sporting goods store today, I’m going to ruin his plans.” You can’t believe your hard working, friendly, neighbor down the street was capable of murdering his entire family before cowardly killing himself, while I expect it from the gardening grandmother across the street.

You call me paranoid, I say I’m prepared. I don’t have a basement full of bottled water, canned food, propane, ammunition, and lye. I carry a concealed weapon. I pray that I don’t ever need to use it, but in the case that I do, everyone around me will be glad that I’ve been carrying around a comforting, uncomfortable, extra couple of pounds for years. I’m not going to be a victim, and I’m going to do my best to make sure you’re not one either.

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