Gun control is necessary.

That's nice of you. You know, if you are bored, I'll tell you a story. How's that. When I was a kid I was going home from school one day in my dad's car. The top half of the building was already engulfed in a bright orange flame. I remember the smell of smoke, even the intensity of the fire. We drove by there again the next day. It wasn't my house. The house was still on fire, at least what was left. There wasn't as much smoke this time, but the firetruck was still there meaning the firemen had been there all night. I asked my dad if he'd been in a fire. He told me that when he was my age, a bunch of kids pushed him into a firepit, burning his hair, causing intense pain etc. He didn't have any visible scars. His hair was comed to the side, like always. He looked like a normal dad. Why would somene push you into a firepit, I asked. He just said, they are mean kids. He had a beard, but wasn't bushy or anything. The feeling of the texture was very strange, didn't feel like anything I'd touched before. When you're a kid, the older you get, the more things you see, memories become harder to recall. My father rearly spoke, but when he did, he always told these interesting stories. They weren't very interesting actually. After school, I'd walk home, alone, and always go play with my GI Joe's in the back yard, always. Soon as he came through the front door, he'd take off his polished black shoes and leather jacket, and go out to the back yard. He wouldn't greet me, he'd just stand in the door with a blank expression on his face. We went to visit my grandparents once a week, or at least for awhile. My gandmother would always bring out a box of candy, go into the kitchen, and serve my parents crumpets and coffee. One time I decidced to go see what was in one of the rooms that my grandfather always kept locked. It was a small room with three shelves on the wall, and an endtable. It had a drawer. I went right for the endtable and opened up the drawer. That's when I took another look at the shelves on the wall. Statues, 7 of them in fact. They looked important. Didn't find any candy in the room, not sure what I was after. Walk away and leavae the door open. My grandmother would find the open door, walk inside the room to investigate, find the drawer open, then maybe think for a minute and walk out and close the door. That's not exactly what happened. She never spoke to me about it. Probably for the best. My father had served in the army back in the 70s. He was a supply officer and worked in management before he applied to officer school. He was rejected. I asked him why once, why were you rejected from officer school. They didn't want me, he said. He told me his friend, a rocket engineer that worked on launch platforms, had recommended him. Years later I thought about it some more. Assumed it was some sort of security issue. It annoyed me greatly to know that my father was a failure, so I told him one day to never talk to me again about the f***ing army. He said, and I quote, "f**k you," to which I replied, "got it." He wasn't really a failure, he just wasn't interested in telling me storeies anymore. It came as a relief to know that my father wasn't a failure, but I couldn't tell him that, that would break his heart. So I told him to f**k off. He wasn't interested in shouting about it, how could he, so I pretended to storm out of the room and shut the door, hard. My dad shot himself with a 12 gauge shotgun on his 65th birthday. He was in amazing shape. The hunting rifle was a present from his dad. Two weeks before, he'd asked me if I wanted to go shooting, wanted to feel like a kid again. I vetted him like a doctor to make sure he wasn't planning anything stupid. I was too busy with my own stuff to think. No matter how much you try, people are going to do terrible things, taking away their rights is not the correct answer.