Alexis Nash

I get it. I’m not much of a looker. I know I’m not ugly or anything, but I have enough humility to recognize there are women out there who, by any conventional standard, are far more attractive than I am. There’s a lot m ore to a person than looks, though, and as it happens, I have a lot more to offer. In fact, I have something that, in my view, is just as important as long, silky hair, perfect skin, or a radiant smile.


You see, while I may not be the prettiest girl in the room, what I do have is a gun.

No, I don’t have the highest cheekbones or the most captivating eyes, but I am in possession of a Glock G17, and that counts for something. I’m not going to pretend I’m out here turning heads like Gigi Hadid or anything. Most of the time, guys don’t even notice me. But as soon as I take out my 9-mil, they all do a double take. Seriously, when I start screaming and shooting holes in the ceiling, all eyes are on me.


I may not have a face to write home about, but I refuse to be judged by that criterion alone. My personality, attitude, and the heat I’m packing are just as meaningful. Beauty is only skin deep—it’s a cliché, but it’s true. In this world, some women rely on their beauty, others on their wit, and me? I rely on pure, raw firepower.

Like my mother always said, “Looks aren’t everything, especially when there’s a loaded gun pointed in your face.”


To all the men out there, let me just say I realize I’m not the first girl you’d go for. Maybe I’m not even the second. But I bet I could shoot both those girls and then turn my weapon on you, and if I did, you couldn’t help but see me in a different light. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. When men are staring down the barrel of my gun, it’s like I’m the only girl in the world and no one else matters.

It’s important for women to understand there is more than one type of feminine allure. Who’s to say that perfect teeth, luscious lips, and long, dark lashes should be valued more than a full magazine and a round in the chamber? True beauty, to me, is on the inside, in a concealed-carry holster strapped to your thigh.


At the end of the day, I’m a plain jane. My friends try to comfort me by saying stuff like, “You’re not giving yourself enough credit” or “Jesus Christ, put that thing away!” but I know they’re just being nice. It’s fine, though. It really is. Beauty is fleeting. Glocks, however, practically last forever as long as you change out the springs every 20,000 shots or so.

Am I a perfect 10? No. Would I win a beauty pageant? Probably not. Could I fire 18 hollow-point bullets into your skull at close- to mid-range with a comfortable degree of accuracy? Absolutely.


It can be tough thinking about all the women out there with perfectly symmetrical features, women I’ll never be able to hold a candle to when it comes to physical attractiveness. But the important thing is that I’ll always be able to hold a gun to their temples as they beg for mercy. That’s what matters most. When I’m waving my gun around, I’m the star of the show. I may not light up a room with my smile, but I sure do light it up when I walk through the door and proceed to empty an entire clip into anything that’s moving.

When a guy gives me a chance and really gets to know me and my short-recoil, semi-automatic weapon, he always manages to see me for who I really am. And if he still doesn’t like me, well, it’s not worth letting him stay in my life.


Or, for that matter, letting him stay alive at all.