Around noon on Tuesday, Andy and I walked into a firing range in Inglewood, just blocks from LAX. It was conveniently sandwiched between a porn store, a car wash, and a bar. When we told the clerk we wanted to shoot a few rounds, he barely blinked, took our IDs and asked which guns we wanted. "What do they shoot on CSI?" I asked. He handed me a Beretta and two boxes of ammunition. Then we chose our targets. I was too freaked out to get ten human outlines, so we opted for some regular bullseyes, two human forms, and a selection of neon prairie dogs for good measure.

"We're new at this," Andy bravely told the guy behind the counter. I foolishly assumed the clerk was a gun enthusiast who'd be excited to give us newbies an hour-long lecture on gun safety, hold my hand while I took my target, and tell stories of training first-timers. I was wrong.

"Here's the magazine, here are your bullets. Don't EVER put your thumbs above the grip. Have fun," he instructed. "That's it???"

Andy looked at me and shrugged. "This is insane," I thought.

We went inside.

For the first ten minutes, I just sat there with the gun, jumping a mile every time someone else in the range fired off a shot. I was close to tears. But then Andy began loading the Glock he'd chosen and fired two shots, hands shaking. I got up the nerve to load my hefty Beretta, feeling its weight in my palms, and stood there, scared of the kick back, but knowing I had to do it. I was there, afterall. I held the revolver just like they do on TV – right hand over the trigger, left cradling it below, feet planted firmly, staring at my target. I took my shot. The gun kicked back, but not nearly strong enough that I'd lose control. The pop was loud, so loud, and then it was just… over. It was so easy. I loaded it again, and shot again. And then I loaded three bullets into the magazine. Pop. Pop. Pop. So that's what semi-automatic means. Until we were through two boxes of 100 bullets each. I'm a decent shot, FYI. It was even getting… fun.

And then the implications of it being so easy hit me. "This is totally crazy," I thought. "What's a nice Jewish girl like me doing at a firing range?!"

The raucous bunch of Swedish guys were still at the other end of the range shooting rifles and a few tough-looking kids had come in next to us, with what looked like AK-47s. What if one of them decided the targets were boring? Anyone of them could just turn around and shoot someone. It sounds obvious, but when you actually have a gun in your hands, it makes their purpose feel so much more real.

I won't say I didn't get a thrill from the experience – I was high from the adrenaline rush the rest of the day, and I see now how people could get obsessed with it. But the reality of it was just too intense – THIS of all things is a constitutional right? I am not convinced that the shooting range is quite what our forefathers had in mind when they prioritized the right to bear arms. But you have to admit, a girl with a gun is pretty hot.

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