I have no words.

Well, I guess not, because here’s some right here.

I have not (until now) joined in the glut of frustration and outrage that’s happening on social media right now. This does not mean I’m not horribly frustrated or that I’m in any sense un-outraged.

I have not taken to Twitter to call for the head of Wayne LaPierre. But not because I don’t think he’s a walking nightmare masquerading as a simple bag of flesh.

I have not posted pointed lists of congresspeople and governors and senators who tacitly empower small angry men with large weapons by not telling the NRA to get stuffed. But not because I approve of their actions or their ignorance or their hubris or whatever the fuck it takes to be the kind of person who can sit back and shrug and offer thoughts and prayers, all of which seems to translate to: “Hey, shit happens. Sometimes that shit involves an assault rifle. Whatevs. Second Amendment, and all.”

I have not, via Facebook, sent out my thoughts and love to the Orlando gay community, or even to my own friends and family who are a part of the gay community. But not because I haven’t been holding these people in my head and heart every moment since I woke up, like everyone else, to this wrenching, horrible news. Again.

Again.

Again again again again again fucking again.

I’m not not angry. I just have no effective expression for it. My anger doesn’t forward the conversation. It is an echo of my friends’ anger. It is an echo of so many strangers’ anger. It is anger that is many ripples away from the despair of those who lost friends and family in Pulse. It is an anger that pales in comparison to the anger a parent must feel to know their child was senselessly gunned down.

My anger is another fuming drop in a raging sea.

My anger does not matter to anyone but me.

What would really do some good right now would be to get into a fight with a hardcore gun advocate. Not the punch him in the face until he spews teeth kind of fight (tempting though that would be), but the kind of fight where he tries to justify the righteousness of any person at all being able to bear whatever kind of arms they feel like bearing, no questions asked, and tearing his argument down, bit by bit. Until he finally concedes that the Second Amendment could use some amending. That if a person cannot get on a plane, that person should not get a gun. That maybe what’s really un-American is to live in such a state of insecurity and hostility that people feel like they must be strapped at all times. That there is something profoundly sick about the ease with which someone can get cheesed off for no good reason and get a trigger to pull.

Soon-to-be-reformed gun nut and I would have a tense but productive conversation. Then he’d take his newfound worldview into his social circles and the change could begin. (Since it’s clear legislation won’t be forthcoming.) One by one he’d change hearts and minds, which would in their turn change more hearts and minds.

Ha. Yeah, I know. Delusional.

A person can dream though, right?

Here’s my point: I’ll write to my congressperson. I’ll do some research on the organizations that seem to be doing the most productive work in gun control—both from a legislative and social standpoint. Then I’ll give them some money or some time or both.

And maybe that will be the drop in a sea that will start a new set of ripples. More hopeful ripples.

But today it all still feels useless.