By 
The Armory is my trigger.
As I was frolicking about Disneyland yesterday with my family, I couldn’t help but notice an eerie feeling of deja vu as we waited for endless hours in the Southern California sun. It was a hark back to the many countless hours I spent waiting in line at the armory trying to turn my weapon in.
These were dark times in my life, and I prefer not to recount them. If I have a personal hell designed just for me, it would be standing in line at the armory, clean rifle in hand, and never reaching the window.
There is something undeniably abhorrent about the armory, as a general thing. Its gray cement walls, speckled with unnervingly small windows lend to a feeling of inadequacy and claustrophobia just at the mere sight of it. My memories of the armory are filled with standing, sandwiched between other Marines in the torrid Hawaiian sun–or even just cleaning.
Endless cleaning.
Your weapon is clean, but still not clean enough.
Go back and clean it some more.
The inside of the armory is equally loathsome, lit only by the sanitized buzz of florescent lighting. Metal cages decorate the interior; though it’s unclear whether they’re designed to keep intruders out, or keep the armory custodians in.
Lastly, if I might offer you a tip of sorts, don’t go to Disneyland during the summer. It’s crowded as fuck.
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