First Step: Admit this isn't really a problem.
Hi. My name is Mike.
(Hello, Mike)
I am a brassrat.
(Welcome, Mike, you are amongst friends)
It has been 4 hours since my last brassrat experience.
>light applause<
I wandered the desert.
(Like the Jews?)
More like old men on Florida beaches with metal detectors.
(So, maybe...)
((It was a JOKE!))
Perhaps more like a forty-niner, picking the occasional bit from the hardscrabble, the sun bearing down mercilessly, the incessant wind taking all the moisture from my body, leaving me cracked lips, papery skin. But I had the fever. My quart Zip-Lok hung limp from my dirty fingers. The 38 special here, a 30-06 or two there, the odd clump of 44-40s. I chipped the few 45s loose from where the spring rains had washed them down from high. I followed the wash, but my eager eye was unrewarded, only teased by the pyritish glint of enameled steel and the accursed zinc. But, hiding 'neath, was a fine deposit of 9mm; over a hundred in all. My brass thirst not slaked , I climbed on, following the trail of live 22LR, until at last, just as all hope was vanishing, I topped the rise and there before me it lay, my quest, the .223 motherlode. Oh blessed golden sunshine spread across a field scattered with over 200 rounds of Lake City, intermingled with a minor vein of 308s and 40s. The debris field suggested that they'd been expended at the grand range of 15 yards. (that was not a typo) My bucket heavy, I returned to my truck whose bed floor was covered with shot up aluminum cans and brought myself back home, sated.
Next week, I promise I'll do better...
(Thank you, Mike)
...but right now I gotta go change media in the tumbler.