Now that the drawer is finally upside down, the silence in the bedroom feels heavier than the plastic that just hit the mattress. There are 24 items scattered across the duvet, and in the harsh afternoon light, they look less like “preparedness” and more like a ransom payment to a version of myself that doesn’t actually exist.
I’m standing here with my hands on my hips, looking at a 134-piece cleaning kit that still has the factory shrink-wrap on it, and I’m trying to remember the man who thought he would need three different types of brass picks on a Tuesday night.
The Clean Room Technician
Miles M.-L. is a clean room technician by trade. I’ve known him for , and his entire professional existence is dedicated to the absence of things. He spends a week fighting microns, ensuring that not even a stray skin cell or a rogue thread from a polyester blend compromises the integrity of a semiconductor.
He is a man of clinical precision, yet when he opened his “miscellaneous” cabinet for me last week, I saw the same chaos that’s currently staring back at me from my bed. He had four different laser sights, each still in its box, their lithium batteries likely slowly dying in the dark.
“I bought them because I felt vulnerable. Every time I read a news story that made me twitch, I bought a part. An accessory. A buffer tube. A 34-millimeter scope mount for a scope I haven’t even picked out yet. It felt like I was doing something. It felt like I was building a wall between me and the world.”
– Miles M.-L.
We are all Miles M.-L. to some degree. When the world feels unpredictable-which, let’s be honest, has been the case for the last straight-we don’t usually go to the range or take a class. We go online.
We look at the “frequently bought together” section. We convince ourselves that the reason we aren’t proficient isn’t a lack of practice, but the absence of a specific 4-ounce piece of machined aluminum.
The laser battery is dead because it has never once been called to duty. It sat in a drawer, representing the idea of accuracy. It’s a tactical placebo. We buy the second holster because we imagine a scenario where the first one fails, or where we suddenly change our entire wardrobe to accommodate a different carry style that we haven’t actually tried yet.
The Rush of Found Currency
I found a twenty-four dollar bill in my old jeans this morning-well, it was a twenty and four singles-and the rush of finding that money felt more real than the satisfaction of owning that unopened cleaning kit.
The Physics of “What-If”
There is a specific physics to the way these items accumulate. It’s not just “stuff.” It’s a physical manifestation of a “what-if” scenario. The industry knows this. Every consumer category eventually begins to sell fear as inventory, but the firearms industry is particularly susceptible because the stakes are inherently high.
If you buy the wrong kitchen spatula, your eggs stick. If you feel unprepared in a defensive situation, the consequences are existential. So, we buy. We buy the thirty-four-piece punch set.
We buy the rail-mounted flashlight that puts out 1004 lumens, enough to blind a god, and then we never buy the batteries for it again once the first set dies after of us playing with it in the hallway.
I remember once spent researching the specific tensile strength of a sling swivel. I read forums. I looked at spreadsheets. I finally ordered the one that was rated for some absurd amount of pressure, as if I were planning on using my rifle as a tow hitch for a semi-truck.
It arrived in a 4-mil plastic bag. I put it in a drawer. I’ve been using a piece of paracord for .
The irony is that the more “prepared” we feel through our purchases, the less prepared we actually are. When I look at Miles M.-L., I see a man who can identify a particulate contamination at but can’t find his own firing pin in the mountain of accessories he’s bought to “protect” his gear.
The ethical retailer is the one who interrupts this cycle. There’s a rare kind of integrity found in a shop where the person behind the counter looks at your basket and asks, “What problem are you trying to solve with this?”
Visit Impact guns
They know that a long-term customer who actually uses their equipment is worth more than the quick margin on a dust cover with a funny quote on it. When you look at a place like Impact Guns, you’re looking for a partner in the process, not just a vending machine for your anxieties. They understand that the firearm is the tool, and the accessories should be the support system, not the main event.
The Inventory of Impulse
I’m currently staring at a holster I bought ago. I don’t even own the pistol it’s designed for anymore. I sold the gun to a guy named Dave after I bought the holster, but I kept the holster because… why? Because it’s high-quality kydex? Because it cost me and admitting it’s useless feels like admitting I’m impulsive?
There’s a strange comfort in the “unopened.” As long as the box is sealed, the item still holds the promise of being the “solution.” Once you open the 134-piece cleaning kit, you realize that 124 of those pieces are things you don’t know how to use, and the remaining 10 are things you already have in an old cigar box.
The mystery is gone, replaced by the reality of another thing to store. Miles once told me that in the clean room, they have a saying about “bringing the outside in.” Every time you enter, you risk contaminating the environment with the world’s chaos.
Our homes are supposed to be our clean rooms. But we bring the outside in every time we click “buy” on a piece of gear we haven’t trained with. We contaminate our peace of mind with the clutter of hypothetical disasters.
The Decision to Strip Back
Items Leaving the Collection
14 / 24
I’ve decided that today, 14 of these 24 items are going. I’m going to give them to the local range or find a new shooter who actually needs a 34-millimeter mount. I’m going to strip back to the essentials.
I don’t need a laser with a dead battery to tell me where I’m aiming; I need to go to the range and spend actually pulling the trigger. The contradiction of my own life is that I’m a minimalist who owns 14 different types of lubricant.
I hate “stuff,” yet I have 4 different bags for 4 different types of range trips, most of which I haven’t taken in .
Responsibility is the of dry-fire practice, not the of browsing a catalog for a new grip texture. If you find yourself standing over your bed, looking at a pile of polymer and steel that hasn’t seen the light of day in , don’t feel bad.
Just acknowledge it for what it is: a physical record of a moment you felt small and tried to buy your way into feeling big. It’s okay to be small. It’s okay to have a firearm and a box of ammo and nothing else. In fact, that’s usually where the most growth happens.
In the end, the only accessory that matters is the one between your ears, and that one doesn’t come in a 4-mil plastic bag. It requires maintenance that you can’t buy in a kit, and it has a battery life that lasts as long as you’re willing to put in the work.
Miles M.-L. is starting to understand that now. He sold 4 of his lasers yesterday. He kept the one that he actually knows how to zero, and he spent just practicing his draw in front of a mirror. He looked more prepared in those 24 minutes than he did in the he spent collecting clutter.
We forget that the gear is supposed to serve us, not the other way around. When the “stuff” starts demanding its own drawer, its own inventory spreadsheet, and its own special batteries that you can only find at one store away, the “stuff” is in charge.
I’m taking my drawer back today. I’m taking my mattress back.
And I’m definitely taking my 24 dollars back from the ghost of the man who thought he needed a tactical pen that also works as a glass breaker and a whistle.
I’ll just use a regular pen. It writes better anyway.