Reality Through Death's Eyes - Chris Farley

Five
Seven
Six
Nine
Eleven
Five

I was shot through the heart twice.

The first time I was shot, I was enraged. The bullet was crudely made of rusted iron, fired from a dangerously volatile make-shift firearm, shot by a humanoid alien possessed by only God knows what.

The second time I was shot, I may as well have broken down into tears. This bullet was miniscule: the size of a pin. Yet, it was filled with the most bitter and sinister poison I've ever experienced. This bullet was fired by what I can only hope is not the future generation that it likely is.

Five, seven, six, nine, eleven, and five people did not shoot me. I believe it is a pretty well-known rule that one does not wear a baseball cap during a ceremonial or formal event, is it not?

I am ashamed that I was once part of the generation that shot me the second time. Unfortunately it took a nearly life-shattering event to make me realize what an ungrateful son of a bitch I was. Even more embarassingly, it is almost expected that kids be this way.

The first man who took aim at me was a being disguised under human skin. Popular media tend to call these maggots "terrorists."

The second person who drew a gun was a short, pudgy, eight-year-old girl.

I used to take off my hat and listen to the national anthem with respect. Not with all due respect, however, because I did not know the extent of that respect. Now when I hear the anthem, I get goosebumps, a lump almost grows in my throat, and my eyes almost well up. Almost.

Five, seven, six, nine, eleven, and five people did not even show the respect I used to before I learned what honoring the flag with all due respect means. Figures.

I'm not even going to establish a moniker for my first attempted murderer. That would imply that he is attached to a human, which would be a blasphemous assertion. Not even "captain douchebag", "ass-hole", or "little pansy boy with a forged license to kill" is appropriate. That would imply that he has human traits. The only thing human about this assassin was his skin, and his thumb that pushed a button.

My second shooter's name is Samantha. She is an innocent eight-year-old that I used to coach on Sunday nights.

She is human. To err is to be human. She is human.

My first shooter was not human. He did not err. He was an error. He was not a human.

I'm speaking figuratively, of course, with the second shooter. The first flagitious being is referred to both figuratively and literally. Take a hint.

An untimely call while driving home from Grandma's house came when we were almost out of Maryland. It was Grandpa: "We booked a last minute flight; we'll be there at midnight." He realized that we had not received the more important phone call, so he declined to explain himself and hung up. Five minutes later, the caller ID read "US STATE DEPT." All the man would say to my mom was "He's stable." When asked what stable meant, he reiterated his response, divulging no more information.

Two sliced critical veins were patched, large amounts of blood replaced, a metal rod and four screws were inserted, and the intestinal system was reconstructed. The first meeting after my dad got home, I broke down into tears during the national anthem.

When talking about the Winter Olympics with the kids I coached, Samantha proudly stated that she wanted Russia to win the most medals, and her brother wanted Sweden to win the most. Disturbed, I asked why. Her response was that Alexander Ovechkin is Russian, and Nicklas Backstrom is Swedish. Disgusted, I told them practice was done early, and told them to leave.

It is sad that it takes a catastrophic event such as a roadside bombing to make the United States a tangible thing. It is easy to understand the Washington Capitals- they score a lot of points, they're fun to watch. It is difficult to understand the concept of the United States.

Life is easy in Ashburn. "Me" society is revoltingly apparent. It is not necessarily a slap to the face of Loudoun County's youth, but a result of the times. In the 1990s, world wars and the Great Depression forced the country to embrace the concept that the States United formed a nation, not only a country. The concept of a nation is sickeningly lost on Loudoun County.

The concept should not have to be taught. Love of a country ought to be inherently learned. But obviously, as the five, seven, six, nine, eleven, and five grown men have shown me, love- for something that other men willingly set their lives on the line for- is nearly lost. An unnamed demon should not have to be the cause for this realization.