Here are the 32 things I’ve learned in my 32 years on Earth:

1. The book is always better than the movie.

2. Everything tastes better with bacon. Everything.

3. It’s not drinking alone if you’re on the phone with somebody who is also drinking.

4. If you’re having more than one wedding shower or more than one baby shower, you’re doing it wrong.

5. Superhero franchises should not be rebooted so often that you can still fit into the same pair of pants at both premieres.

6. Before you marry someone, make sure you enjoy doing boring, mundane crap with them. Because your marriage will be composed of 10 percent magical moments and 90 percent doing boring, mundane crap together.

7. No amount of digital remastering can change the fact Han shot first.

8. The quickest way to kicked off a singing competition show is to attempt a Whitney Houston song. You will never sing as good as Whitney Houston. Hell, toward the end of her life, even Whitney Houston couldn’t sing as good as Whitney Houston.

9. No, ladies, you do not deserve to be treated like a princess. You deserve to be treated like a human. Get over yourself.

10. Travel as much as you possibly can.

11. A slow Internet connection might be the ultimate first world problem, but it still really, really sucks. Like, REALLY sucks.

12. If no one will publish your book, publish it yourself. If no one will cast you in a TV show, start your own web series. If no one will sell your art, sell it yourself. There are no excuses anymore.

13. Never become so jaded and callous that you don’t give the homeless guy the spare change in your pocket.

14. It is absolutely impossible to resist yelling out “Leonard Bernstein” while listening to “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” by R.E.M.

15. Dog fur is the most resilient substance on Earth. No matter how much you use a lint roller, it will still be there on your pants. Even if you’re murdered and dumped in the ocean and found two years later, police will still be able to identify you by the dog hair they find on your pants.

16. Tweet like no one’s reading.

17. Don’t pay too much attention to statistics. Over 64.7 percent of them are made up on the spot.

18. Never put too much stock in winning awards. Just remember: Kathie Lee and Hoda have won multiple Emmys.

19. No one can make you feel guilty. Only you can make you feel guilty. Unless it’s your mom. Mom can always make you feel guilty.

20. Violence is never the answer. Unless the question is “What should we do about Kim Kardashian?”

21. It’s always better to look your age than to look like you’re desperately trying not to look your age.

22. Shelter pets make the best pets.

23. Fellas, if the woman you are marrying is a bridezilla, don’t be shocked when she continues to act like an entitled brat for the rest of your life.

24. You should automatically unfriend anyone who uses hashtags on Facebook.

25. If you’re worried about your privacy, posting rants about privacy on your Facebook page probably isn’t the best solution.

26. Don’t give your kid a stupid name. Just…don’t.

27. Sometimes living life to the fullest includes 18 hours straight of watching “Arrested Development” on Netflix.

28. You’re not officially old until Bingo becomes fun.

29. Leggings are not pants. I repeat, leggings are not pants.

30. Don’t bother keeping up with the Joneses. They’re jerks anyway.

31. Never let Christmas morning lose its magic.

32. Never get a tattoo of an Internet meme. YOLO looks dumb on your wrist now and will look really dumb 30 years from now.

But the truth is, I was ready. More than ready. Hell, I had been ready since the day I moved to Boston over two years ago, all bright-eyed and innocent, ready to shed my small town girl image for a sophisticated city gal persona.

I just wasn’t sure if, after all this time, I would even know what to do. If at this point, I would just be making a fool of myself, trying to fit in with everyone else who had vastly more experience with this kind of stuff than I did.

And then, like most things of this nature, one night one thing led to another. Drinks were had. Suggestions were made. Tickets were bought.

And before I knew it, I had lost my cherry to Fenway.

Don’t get me wrong. I had been around a few baseball stadiums at this point so I wasn’t completely innocent. In fact, my fifth-grade teacher was such a die-hard Cincinnati Reds fan that every year he took his class on a field trip to a game. I also once went to a Houston Astros game with not one but TWO of my guy friends. But since we weren’t really fans, it got kind of awkward and no one really knew where to put their hands.

But neither of those times had been like this. Never like this.

Fenway was not gentle. It was not sweet. It didn’t bother with the pillow talk, let alone cuddling.

But it did believe in plenty of foreplay. Stepping onto Yawkey Way before the main event was like stepping back in time, into a street carnival straight out of the 1930′s. All that was missing was a bunch of young boys in newsboy caps rolling a hoop with a stick down the street. I was being seduced on all sides by the sweet sounds of vendors yelling out their wares and being caressed by a thousand touches as already drunk fans barreled into me.

I was in love.

Sure, call me a masochist if you must, but as it turns out, I like a little pain with my pleasure. And no where was this more abundant than when we got down to business and assumed the position.

You probably already know this, but the seats at Fenway are not for the faint of heart. They are not for the fair weather fan. They are not even for humans. The engineer who came up with these seats not only didn’t have a butt himself, but had also never met anyone else with a human butt in his lifetime.

Judging by the amount of leg room, he also was a hobbit.

Forget water boarding. You want a terrorist to reveal his secrets? Let him sit in one of those Fenway seats through an entire game WITHOUT the saving grace of the seventh inning stretch and watch how quickly that canary sings.

“OK, OK! Yes, I will give you all the names of my fellow terrorists and where our secret weapons cache is. Just please…PLEASE…let me stand. I can no longer feel my lower half, my back is on fire and I will probably never be able to poop normally again!”

But it didn’t matter. I was already emotionally attached. We were still in the very middle of the act, not even the fifth inning yet, and I was already fantasizing about kids. Raising my kids as Red Sox fans. Dressing them up in tiny Red Sox onesies. Bringing them to a game as a family.

I was even ready to make the ultimate commitment of season tickets.

Of course, after the game, the magic I saw in Fenway started to fade a bit. Leaving was extremely awkward, what with trying to make a graceful exit from the stadium and then trying not to vomit as some drunk fan on the Green Line kept shouting in my face with his rancid beer breath about how awesome the game was and also how he noticed I had boobs. Two of them, in fact.

But I still have faith that Fenway and I can make this work. And I plan to be back for more.

Maybe even switch it up a bit to keep things spicy and go to an early game for a little afternoon delight.

Yeah.

So I published a book.

(Did it work? Did I hit that sweet spot between proud yet nonchalant?)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely happy about this accomplishment. Giddy even. It was No. 1 on my bucket list: Become an author. And after ten years working as a humor columnist, where I documented my transition to adulthood, I finally had enough material to write a tongue-in-cheek guide to growing up, from post-college to turning 30.

To be honest, it’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever done. But don’t take my word for it. The early reviews speak for themselves:

“This is the greatest book ever written ever. I’m so proud of you, honey! Also, are you eating enough? You look skinny in your author photo.” –Aprill’s mom

“Holy crap, you wrote a book? I thought you were just playing Candy Crush on the computer.” –Aprill’s husband

“Who is this? I told you to stop calling here.” –Whoever answers the phone at the New York Times Book Review

“…*fart*…” –Aprill’s dog

It wasn’t easy. As they say, dreams come true, not free. So, the past several months were spent like this:

The Writing Process

The Editing Process

The Publishing Process

(That’s…uh…that’s all I really remember about this part).

But it’s done. And all that hard work was worth it. My book, “Why Does the Cheese Always Fall? (A Guide to Faking Adulthood)” is now out there in the world.

Specifically out there at Smashwords.com, an indie author website where it is available to download on all Apple and Kindle products and pretty much any other electronic device you have, and also now available at Amazon.

For only $2.99.

(Did I hit that sweet spot between giving you information and blatantly marketing my book to you?)

The only thing missing from it is a dedication page, which was not included because I completely forgot about it. So, if I may, I’d like to add that part here.

To all the indie authors and writers with stacks of rejection letters in their desks, who slave away writing day and night because they know no other way than to write, this book is dedicated to you.

To all the local musicians, wherever you’re from, who practice and tour and play tiny, tiny bars only to get paid in beer year after year because they know no other way than to play music, this book is dedicated to you.

To the artists, who work day jobs and then come home and stay up half the night working on their masterpieces because they know no other way than to create, this book is dedicated to you.

To anyone who has ever had a dream, because they know no other way than to dream, this book is dedicated to you.

So go buy it.

(Did I hit that sweet spot between genuine and yet desperate for money?)

Boston. The urban jungle. A wilderness teeming with exotic species and, at times, dangerous terrain (the Pedestrian/Vehicular Civil War has been raging in the region since 1934).

For the past two years, I have lived among the wildlife naturally found in this part of the world, in an effort to study and document their behavior and way of life. After several months of careful observation, I have come to discover that the creatures found here are much more varied than first thought.

Among the numerous species found in Boston (such as Manic-Depressive Sports Fan, Drunk Sorority Girl and Angry Hobo), is a most curious mammal known as the Native Bruncher.

The Native Bruncher is a result of centuries of evolution and combines the urban dwellers’ natural instinct to flock together on the weekends and their natural aversion to any type of exertion. From what I have gathered in my research, the habits of the Native Bruncher serve on both a medicinal and social level.

While for most of their week, the Native Bruncher forages for food among the alleyways and corners of their habitat, the main caloric staple of their diet is morning-appropriate cocktails and ironically named omelets featuring a fascinating combination of cheeses. The Native Bruncher will drink and eat these items on the weekend until they have amassed enough calories to tide them over for the next five or six days, where they lapse into a hibernation-like state known as “The Work Week.”

Although the history of Brunchers has never fully been documented, it is believed that the very first brunch was held in 1753 in England when a hungover Lord Hamish Cottington Hammingford the IV woke up late one Sunday morning and found that he was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch at the local pub.

Flabbergasted, the proprietor asked him what he would like to eat: breakfast or lunch?

His response changed the course of weekends as we know it.

“Hmm…well, eggs sound good, but so does steak. Or perhaps pancakes. But then again, a big sandwich might be nice. You know what, how about you just bring me a crap load of all of that. And some ale mixed with something fruity and topped with no less than three fruit garnishes.”

This unique mixture of food caught on immediately among the hungover-impaired peasantry, prompting Lord Hammingford to declare “I shall call it ‘Lubreakfanch!’”

Luckily, his wife, who was slightly less inebriated (having only had four fruity ale cocktails, as opposed to seven) suggested changing it “brunch.”

Eventually the ritual spread throughout Europe and by 1829 was brought to America by a traveler named Chet Avery, who in some academic circles is also believed to have been the first hipster on record and the inventor of what we now call “the soul patch.” Avery was also an avid proponent of the healing effects of alcohol to combat the negative effects of alcohol and making it a staple of the brunch ritual.

While Brunchers can now be found in urban jungles all over the world, they seem to be most populous in Boston (although Native Brunchers from Portland and Brooklyn would probably categorically disagree with that statement in a pompous voice while barely looking up from their iPhones).

The Boston breed of the Native Bruncher is also unique in its penchant for “theme” brunch, such as Disco Brunch and for being the first successful species to have brunch on the water (the 1974 sinking of a ship in the early days of this tradition, dubbed “The Bacon-Flavored Tea Party,” notwithstanding).

What separates the Boston Native Bruncher from other species who practice brunch-ery is the way it has honed its skill and timing in arriving to brunch before the phenomenon known as “the rush” begins. For example, if the species known as “Newbie” arrives to brunch promptly at 11 a.m., they will find that particular watering hole already teeming with Native Brunchers. The “Newbie” is then likely to give up, bowing down to the alpha herd, and will then head to a much less trendy watering hole where the eggs are much less fancy.

A close cousin of the Native Bruncher, known as the Permanent Resident Yet Non-Native Bruncher, can also be found in large quantities in Boston. They are easily spotted on the outskirts of the herd, waiting until the Natives have finished and then getting whatever scraps are left over. At times, the Permanent Resident Yet Non-Native Bruncher can wait up to four hours, tiding itself over with screwdrivers and Bloody Mary’s until they are finally allowed to feast. This is also where the Fanny Pack Tourist species can be spotted as well.

Typically, brunch lasts for two to three hours for all of the species, although on certain occassions it can last until 2 a.m. depending on the individual Bruncher’s capacity to ingest large amounts of alcohol for many, many hours straight.

As for what the future holds for the Native Brunchers and their ilk, no one can be certain, especially considering the encroachment of chain restaurants on their native land. But the most current scientific research suggests that mimosas will be involved no matter what.

(And if you haven’t, you can read the first part here and the second part here).

But just to sum up real quick, my back porch has been taken over by a bumblebee and a wasp who are not only working in CAHOOTS to keep me away from my own rightful property, but who have also given my dog PTSD after a disastrous attempt to take it back.

Well, recently it’s been quite rainy, so both sides retreated back to their respective base camps for the past week or so. Today, however, is an absolutely gorgeous day so, figuring they had either died (how long can their life spans be anyway?) or found someone else in the neighborhood to torture, I decided to go enjoy the sunshine on MY back porch.

But just as I was about to open the porch door, I looked up and saw this staring back at me through the glass:

Better yet, my dog, who was happily about to follow me out, also saw them glaring at us from the other side of the door. And when he did, he quickly backed up, ran out of the kitchen and is currently quivering on my bed.

Now, if I was a real adult, I’d just go out there with a broom or possibly a grenade and kill the little bastards. End this ridiculous stand-off.

But I’m not. And so instead, I slowly backed away, grabbed a napkin and waved it in the air.

And consequently, I will be spending my entire summer indoors.

Well played, Nature. Well played.

The place is here. The time? Now. Street scene: Summer. A woman is on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth as she talks on her cell phone. Age: 31. Occupation: Hack writer who steals formulas from 1950’s television series.

Meet Aprill Brandon, a fiscally irresponsible woman with a penchant for ridiculously high heels. In just a moment, Mrs. Brandon will enter a world where logic and reason have no meaning. A world where only confusion, misdirection and “Sorry, lady, that’s not my responsibility” reign. For an otherwise ordinary day, this simple phone call is about to take a turn for the worse.

“Hello. Please enter your 16-digit credit card code.”

1234-XXXX-XXXX-XXXX

“Thank you. For security purposes, please enter the last four digits of your social security number.”

5XXX

“Thank you. All our available operators are currently busy. Please wait for the next available operator.”

Doo-doo-doo-dah-dah-dah-bum-da-doo-dah…

(45 minutes later…)

“Hello. This is Steve. Welcome to customer service. How can I help you today?”

“Hi, I’m calling about the debt cancellation policy I signed up for when I first got this credit card. I keep getting charged each month for it, which is making it hard to pay off my card and so I’d like to cancel it.”

“All right, ma’am. We don’t handle those policies so I’m going to transfer you to the third party company that does. You’ll be redirected to a menu and when it prompts you, you’ll want to choose Option Three, OK?”

“OK. Thank you.”

“Hello. Welcome to Account Protection Services. If you are calling about your payment status, press One. If you are calling about processing a claim, press Two. To return to the main menu, press Nine.”

“Um…[hits the three button]“

“I’m sorry. I do not understand this command. If you are calling about your payment status, press One…”

“…[hits the one button]…”

“Hello. This is Linda. How may I help you today?”

“Hi, Linda. I’m trying to cancel my debt cancellation policy for my credit card. I was transferred to an automated menu by customer service and pressed Option One and I got you.”

“OK. Well, we’re not the ones in charge of those policies so I’m going to transfer to you to the department that handles that. You’ll be redirected to a menu and you’ll want to choose Option Three.”

“Oh, but wait, the last time…”

“Hello. Welcome to Account Protection Services. If you are calling about your payment status, press One. If you are calling about processing a claim, press Two. To return to the main menu, press Nine.”

(Two hours later…)

“Hello. This is Haashim. How may I help you today?”

“OK, look. I know this isn’t your fault but I’ve been on the phone all afternoon and have been transferred to at least 15 different departments or in some cases, completely different companies. I’m just trying to cancel the debt cancellation policy on my credit card. But I keep getting sent to a menu where I’m told to choose Option Three. Only there is no Option Three. There is never an Option Three. All I want is to talk to a human being who can cancel this policy. Can. You. Cancel. This. Policy?”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear about all your trouble, Mrs. Brandon. Unfortunately, we do not have the power to cancel the policy in this department. I suspect, however, the other operators were transferring you to the wrong menu. Let me transfer you to another menu, which should have Option Three.”

“BUT THERE IS NO OPTION THREE! THERE’S NEVER AN OPTION THREE!”

“One moment, please…”

“Hello. Welcome to Account Protection Services. If you are calling about your payment status, press One. If you are calling about processing a claim…”

“(Rocking back and forth)…There is no Option Three…There is no Option Three…There is no…”

Aprill Brandon. Age: 31. All she wanted was to begin a new life of fiscal responsibility. But in the end, it turns out the price for such a goal was her sanity.

It can happen…in the Credit Card Zone.

1. Mom with luxury stroller- That’s great that you can afford a stroller the size of a Hummer for Baby Zsa Zsa over there but you’re taking up too much room and blocking everyone’s access to get on or off the train easily. And don’t give me that nasty look when I refuse to get up and give you my seat. I’m reserving it for all the mothers out there with reasonably sized strollers. Besides, your behemoth of a stroller could fit you and half of the Bruins team in it so, there you go. There’s your seat.

2. Hobo that smells like pee- I get it. Times are hard. But next time, try peeing in the alleyway right beside the T as opposed to in your pants while on the T.

3. Guy rapping along to his own “demo” mix- No one is impressed, dude. No. One.

4. Woman with giant purse, which apparently needs its own seat during rush hour- There is a special place in hell for people like you.

5. Gang of junior high kids- I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you just got out of school and are apparently fueled by six Red Bulls and 52 pounds of gummi worms. But no one honestly believes that Tammy the eighth-grader went to second base with you in the janitors closet so shut the hell up.

6. Young couple in love- I’m assuming she’s probably banging someone else on the side hence the desperate display of love and affection but come on, guys, keep it in the bathroom of the basement dive bar like everybody else.

7. Dude who keeps loudly telling his sob story and asking for $15 because he needs to get a state ID or he won’t be able to sign the lease on his apartment and the office that gives out the ID closes in 20 minutes which means he can’t get home to get money for said ID so if you could just spare some money to help him out otherwise he’ll be homeless and normally he’d never do anything like this but this is an emergency- No one is buying it, dude. No. One.

8. That guy wearing the Scumbag Steve hat on his cell phone yelling “I’M ALMOST TO DOWNTOWN CROSSING! WHAT? NO, DOWNTOWN CROSSING! WHERE ARE YOU? BRO, I SAID ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ NAW, MAN, LIKE PROBABLY FIVE MINUTES. WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

9. Woman eating McDonald’s- Great. Now we all get to smell like slightly burnt fries. Thanks.

10. Creepy silent starer- Um…yes, I can feel your gaze on me. And every time I try stealthily to look up to see if you’re still staring, BOOM! you are. Learn the rules of polite society, buttface, and awkwardly look down at the floor like the rest of us.

I was going to take back my territory if it was the last thing I did. So I decided to go nuclear on their asses and bring in my secret weapon:

CAPTAIN CANINE!

Yes, I figured if anything could defeat my sworn enemies, it would be my dog, a fearless creature who will eat ANYTHING (except, of course, for cheap dog food).

Or at least I thought so up until a few minutes ago, when Buffy and I stepped outside and this happened:

Yeah. I’m pretty sure we have to move now.

I’m…I’m not even sure how it happened. One minute I’m sitting out there with my cup of coffee, enjoying the spring sunshine, and the next…well, the next I’m on the losing side of a vicious battle I didn’t even know I was involved in until it was too late.

But perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Everything you’ve ever read about me and insects is true (I know this for a fact since if you’ve read anything about me, it was written by me since I am the only one who feels I am important enough to write about). At this point, I’ve had so many epic battles with bugs and other vermin that I’m practically a seasoned four-star general (that loses a lot, including losing three and a half of her stars).

(Examples can be found here and here and here and here).

So you would think at this point, I’d be used to it. But I’m not. Which is why when a seemingly friendly bumblebee tried to become all buddy-buddy with me by invading my personal space, the following happened:

Sure, the bumblebee probably meant no harm. But I’m a big believer of there is a reason Nature was invented and that reason is so bugs have some place to live far away from me so I don’t have to see their stupid faces.

Now, that whole episode in and of itself wasn’t that big of a deal. But then, not even five minutes later, a wasp decided to check out the situation. Which is when this happened:

Then it got quiet.

A little too quiet, if you know what I mean.

And then, just when I thought it was all over, that’s when, for the first time in recorded history, a wasp and a bumblebee put aside their differences (and century-long feud over whose stinger was bigger) to come together to defeat a common enemy.

Granted, I can’t be too sure of the details considering they hatched their plan out of my sight, but I’m pretty confident what happened next is the bug version of an ’80′s movie montage, which I would love to draw for you if it weren’t for my lack of artistic skill in trying to create a believable dressing room. So instead I will simply describe the montage:

SCENE ONE: Bumblebee and Wasp, both indignant over my treatment of them, spread out a blueprint of my back porch and look very serious while pointing at things and sticking pencils behind their ears.

SCENE TWO: Rapid-fire images of them running up steps, lifting weights, boxing each other, running up steps again, dragging a Matchbox car behind them with a tiny rope, running up steps again, playfully squirting water on each other from their water bottles, close-up of their bug muscles in action and finally reaching the top of the steps where they do a total rip-off of Rocky.

SCENE THREE: Obligatory dressing room scene where they take turns coming out of the dressing room dressed in different military/ninja/soldier gear while the other one shakes his head no, followed by one coming out in a ballroom dress (for some cheap laughs), finally followed by the perfect outfit, which is exactly what they were wearing before.

SCENE FOUR: The two of them sawing some wood and using those fire thingies that weld stuff and you have to wear those creepy masks like in “Flashdance” that I was never allowed to use in shop class after a completely innocent incident where Pete Mackleroy’s hair caught on fire.

All of which culminates in the following ingenious plan:

Yes, for no less than 15 minutes, I was held hostage in the corner of my porch while these two played out their evil plan. They had even anticipated my counter-tactic of crawling across the porch floor, military-style, in a desperate bid to reach the door.

It’s all kind of a blur now, but somehow, by some miracle and no shortage of pure, unadulterated bravery on my part, I managed to finally run inside and slam the door behind me, leaving them glaring at me from behind the glass.

And that’s where they still currently are. Manning their posts. Refusing to let me back outside. And laughing their tiny, stupid, bug-faced laughs.

I guess I really only have myself to blame. I did strike the first blow.

Although, if my friend Billy is right, this whole harrowing experience was actually a conspiracy, with the bumblebee and wasp running interference for some shady caterpillars cooking up meth in the corner.

P.S.: The battle is far from over…check out my update on the situation here.

The best anecdote I can give is that I woke up on Saturday exhausted and my entire body physically sore, which was probably the result of sitting on my couch watching the news for 15 hours and unable to relax any single muscle until the suspect was declared officially in custody. And when word came down that he finally was caught, I let out a huge sigh, which was probably a response to feeling like I had been holding my breath all day.

But then, THEN, I started to get retro-actively angry. And not all of it was entirely aimed at this tiny, tiny, petty man who had managed to hold my entire city hostage for a day. I was also angry at all the ignorant social media messages posted by tiny, tiny petty people who had used this tragedy to promote their own pro-gun agenda. From Arkansas legislator Nate Bell’s incredibly insensitive tweet about liberal Bostonians probably wishing they had an AR-15 as they cowered in their homes, to NRA supporters gloating over the bipartisan gun control bill being voted down while innocent people in Boston were having their legs amputated and West, Texas was reeling from their own tragedy, to even a few friends reposting disgusting and ill-timed memes of the president, a man who was busy trying to help Boston and West, Texas and the rest of the country heal.

All of it was horrifying and soul-crushing.

Because while there is a time and a place to have a RATIONAL debate about gun control, particularly after the tragedy in Newtown, this week wasn’t it. And using Boston as an example certainly wasn’t the place.

I woke up to a war zone on Friday, as did all of Boston, after only four days of living through another unimaginable tragedy. And let me tell you, what happened that day was a beautiful example of true patriotism.

See, while Nate Bell was busy having masturbatory fantasies about playing Rambo through the streets of Boston as he personally killed all the terrorists of the world, the patriots of Boston were staying in their homes with their doors locked because we knew that the last thing the police and FBI and military members (who had been working non-stop since Monday) needed was to worry about us. Their job was to make sure they got this guy without anyone else getting hurt and our job was to let them do it. We didn’t riot, we didn’t form militias, we didn’t try to hunt down a possibly bomb-strapped bad guy on our own to “help.”

(Speaking of which, for all their big talk, I didn’t hear of one single anti-gun-control advocate that was mouthing off on Facebook hopping on a plane to Boston and publicly declaring their intention to help catch this guy with their own personal AR-15. Not a single one came up here, tapped the police chief on the shoulder and said “don’t worry, we got this, why don’t you guys take a rest.”)

Boston kept calm. We carried on. And when the police did the job that we pay them for and that they are trained for, we came out of our homes and stood with our families in the streets, cheering them on as they made their way home to their own families after an amazingly well done job.

And as for all the people posting ignorant statements that one madman would never be able to hold their own city in Texas, or New Mexico or wherever under siege because they all own guns, all I have to say is 1. I hope to God you never have to find out and 2. You never bring an untrained civilian with a gun to a bomb fight. That is, of course, unless you don’t care how many innocent people get hurt in the process.

The NRA and die-hard gun advocates are their own worst enemy. Not just because they’re giving a bad name to gun-owners everywhere, almost all of whom are responsible and good people.

And not just because they dared to say that the American people have spoken when the gun control bill was, pardon the pun, shot down. (Even just the smallest amount of unbiased research will reveal that the only people who spoke that day was the NRA and the legislators that are in their pocket since the overwhelming majority of people feel like I do, which is that people should have the right to own guns but there should be background checks and restrictions on Internet sales.) And not just because they keep repeating the untrue mantra “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” (Even the smallest amount of critical thinking skills will reveal that a person with an automatic gun with a high-capacity magazine can kill a lot more people than a person with a rifle.)

And not just because they distort the facts on a regular basis and try to scare people into thinking someone is coming to take away their guns. (Even though no government official has ever knocked on the door of a law-abiding, gun-owning citizen and demanded they hand over all their weapons, no questions asked).

It’s because through all of those tactics combined and the complete lack of tact they showed this week, they have turned someone like me, who supported the Second Amendment and wasn’t very vocal on the issue of gun control, into a very vocal enemy. An enemy who believes these gun nuts should have absolutely no lobbying power in Congress.

And I’m sure I’m not the only one.