And if I had a social media team or publicist, this would definitely be a thing. Or maybe it would be a thing. I'm not afraid to bail on something that's just not working (and not likely to start soon). So thank you all (by which I mean both of you LOL) and perhaps in a FUTURE production there will be time and headspace to make a real BTS content newsletter. Instead, in gratitude, I'll leave you with a bonus poem — hope you enjoy! All Gunwork and No Gunplay Makes Jack a Dull GunboyWhen I was a gunbaby, I lived on gunmother’s milk. I lay in my guncrib and watched my gunmobile circle slowly in the air above. My gunfather stood above me, eyes bright with gunpride, and hummed with gunjoy at the thought of the times ahead of us: guncamping, Gun Scouts, gunfishing, trips to the gunstore together, going out on the lake in the gunboat, learning to drive a guncar—all of it, all of it lay in our future. He died while I was still a young gunchild, though, when a round blew up in his chamber. After that, my gunmom raised me alone. We made it; she was a tough gunbird, and even if she didn’t show me much affection, I knew she loved me. I got through gunschool without incident, and in guncollege I majored in Ballistics. Now I have a small but satisfying life: a good gunjob, with prospects for promotion; a nice gungirl I take out every week for dinner and a gunshow—she’s a little gun-shy, very proper in public, but I’m sure things will be different after our upcoming shotgun wedding; and a gunchurch I go to every week—I’m a gundeacon there, and it’s really brought me closer to God. “Our Gunfather, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” I’m nobody special, really, not important in the bigger scheme of things; I’m not going to be a famous gunsinger or gunscientist or guntitan of industry, but the nation is built on gunpeople like me. I think my gundad would be proud. Most days, that’s enough. But sometimes, when everyone else is sleeping and the night is quiet and the future stretches out endlessly in front of me, it all starts to seem a little bleak, a little empty. I go to sleep, and I dream, and I don’t quite remember what the dreams are about. But I remember running. I remember screaming. And when I wake up, I swear I can smell burnt gunpowder. |
OK, it was a great thought...
And if I had a social media team or publicist, this would definitely be a thing. Or maybe it would be a thing. I'm not afraid to bail on something that's just not working (and not likely to start soon). So thank you all (by which I mean both of you LOL) and perhaps in a FUTURE production there will be time and headspace to make a real BTS content newsletter. Instead, in gratitude, I'll leave you with a bonus poem — hope you enjoy! All Gunwork and No Gunplay Makes Jack a Dull GunboyWhen I was a gunbaby, I lived on gunmother’s milk. I lay in my guncrib and watched my gunmobile circle slowly in the air above. My gunfather stood above me, eyes bright with gunpride, and hummed with gunjoy at the thought of the times ahead of us: guncamping, Gun Scouts, gunfishing, trips to the gunstore together, going out on the lake in the gunboat, learning to drive a guncar—all of it, all of it lay in our future. He died while I was still a young gunchild, though, when a round blew up in his chamber. After that, my gunmom raised me alone. We made it; she was a tough gunbird, and even if she didn’t show me much affection, I knew she loved me. I got through gunschool without incident, and in guncollege I majored in Ballistics. Now I have a small but satisfying life: a good gunjob, with prospects for promotion; a nice gungirl I take out every week for dinner and a gunshow—she’s a little gun-shy, very proper in public, but I’m sure things will be different after our upcoming shotgun wedding; and a gunchurch I go to every week—I’m a gundeacon there, and it’s really brought me closer to God. “Our Gunfather, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” I’m nobody special, really, not important in the bigger scheme of things; I’m not going to be a famous gunsinger or gunscientist or guntitan of industry, but the nation is built on gunpeople like me. I think my gundad would be proud. Most days, that’s enough. But sometimes, when everyone else is sleeping and the night is quiet and the future stretches out endlessly in front of me, it all starts to seem a little bleak, a little empty. I go to sleep, and I dream, and I don’t quite remember what the dreams are about. But I remember running. I remember screaming. And when I wake up, I swear I can smell burnt gunpowder. |