My friend Amy's idea for Valentine's Day (or Singles Awareness Day, or S. A. D.) was to gather up all her single friends and go to the shooting range. I'd never fired a gun before, so I was glad of the chance, but it's loud and dangerous and the firing range is run by people wearing the Second Amendment printed on their t-shirts, so I was happy to scuttle back to my happy squishy librul world as soon as it was over.
By "dangerous" I mean that even though the range had many rules about gun handling and even though Amy's friend Rob, who was handling the educational part of the shooting experience, was very knowledgeable and very careful, and even though we had been carefully schooled to do nothing but pick up the gun, fire down range, and put the gun down again and step away, I was still mostly convinced that anyminnitnow all the guns would spring to life like in a really bad black-n-white 1930s cartoon and spray us all with hot burning lead, to a soundtrack by Carl Stallings.
By "loud" I mean that even with ear protection being at the range was like being trapped in a box with a giant finger hammering the lid.
Firing a real gun is a lot like firing a nail gun: squeeeeezeBANG!!! except the BANG!!! is louder and a nail gun doesn't spit brass cartridges at your face. I have a tiny cut on my left hand where it got bit by the slide on the top of the gun; my fault for holding it wrong.