By All Accounts, I Should Be A Disaster

From birth, I was destined to be destructive. Before I took my first breath, my cells were coming together, laying out my destiny ahead of me. As a baby boy, little did I know that four out of five crimes are committed by males. Little did I know that my parents would get divorced, doubling the likelihood that I’d someday commit a violent crime. All these statistics weighed heavily on me before I could even stand up and walk.

And as I grew, I made choices of my own, placing myself into more categories, into more statistical groups. I played the violent video games that are supposed to make people more aggressive. I rocked out to the angry music that is supposed to inspire me to take harmful, rebellious action against society. I watched the violent movies that are supposed to desensitize me to brutality.

In addition to that, I have the means. I own a number of weapons – guns, swords, daggers, axes, and so on. I am somewhat of a recluse. I like wearing black. I have vague anti-establishment leanings. Etc.

By all accounts, I fit the profile of killers like those at Columbine or Virginia Tech.

And yet, here I am sitting in my room – not locked in a prison or laying in a grave – typing up these musings. And, believe it or not, despite all the evidence, I have no desire to go shoot anyone, at a school or otherwise. In fact, I have no desire to harm anyone by any means.

Alas, my dear statistics, I have failed you.