A Shooting at the Bowling Alley

I watched as the most skilled member of our expedition twisted his body like Bill Murray in Kingpin, minus the toupee flapping in the wind. A few lanes down, keeping up my movie reference, a few Amish kids enjoy cheap beer and opportunities for the guys in the group to prove their manhood to the bonnets by hurling 12 pound urethane orbs at a triangle of 10 squat, wood pins.

I chat with a friend about the local economy. And as casually as Bill Murray posts turkeys onto his score, I shoot off my mouth and land red hot lead in his heart.

Words, intended for good or evil, carry a force to be reckoned with. Frankly it doesn't matter whether or not we intended them this way or that. Stray bullets don't care about motives.

I'm not very good about using my words wisely. I walk into conversations like I'm in a scene out of the Matrix, guns blazing, room left in ashes. Then I come to and see the victims of friendly fire, at which point I call the ambulance in panic. I'd like to think that I'm better at this than I used to be, but when it comes to words, my mind always has a finger on the trigger, which results in more wounded friends than I'd like to admit.