So here’s this lady who gets depressed and suicidal. I’ve very sorry to hear that.
No, seriously, I can almost relate. Having gone through some bad stuff from time to time in my life, the question of whether I wouldn’t be better off putting a shotgun under my chin has occasionally occurred. I never did it, obviously, because I’ve never reached any point where there was no hope that tomorrow might not be a better day. But to that extent, I can sort of understand where she’s coming from.
Except – and here’s where we part company so abruptly I may need to be treated for whiplash – her solution to fighting her suicidal compulsion involves punishing me.
Please take away my Second Amendment right. Do more to help us protect ourselves because what’s most likely to wake me in the early hours isn’t a man’s body slamming at my door but depression, that raven, tapping, rapping, banging for relief.
I have a better chance of surviving if I never have the option of being able to pull the trigger.
Let’s set aside the notion that there’s something called a “second amendment right.” There isn’t. The right to keep and bear arms so transcends the constitution as to reduce that document to irrelevancy. This lady doesn’t own a gun. There is no serious law anywhere in the land mandating that she must own a gun, or any other weapon. If she wishes to remain helpless, she is perfectly free to do so. By her own testimony she has done so. Living where she does, there is absolutely no possibility that she will impulsively go out and buy a gun for the purpose of offing herself.
So by any conceivable standard, she is safe from suicide by her own gun. Okay, if that’s what she wants. I’m not going to sneak on to her porch and shove one through her letter slot.
But that’s not good enough for this pathetic woman. No. Some day in the future she might buy a gun, and apparently that frightens her. So I must lose the ability to exercise my right, so that she will feel safer in her own head.
Lady. All I can say is, nooses and gas ovens and bottles of sleeping pills. Cars in garages and the ledges of tall buildings. Razor blades with a warm bath and a bottle of wine. Consider being afraid of these things instead, and leave me the hell out of it.
H/T to Ann Althouse.