I'm in the middle of an Escape from New York, heading for Texas.
(I did not move to New York entirely by choice. It's where my graduate program was. Having finished that, I am making all due haste to move somewhere one can at least get a permit to own. It may take me a while to believe in CC; I don't want any too-abrupt shocks to the system to take me down just as I taste freedom (cordite, gun oil; good things rich and plentiful).
I grew up in the Midwest. It's saner there. But the memory fades....
So I'm lighting out for the frontier. The quality of living is higher even if it weren't for the fact that I can shoot, there.
(You may wonder how I ever got started shooting. Good question. I've been to an indoor range exactly twice in my life. Thoroughly enjoyed both times, though, even though the first time my brother had to rent guns for us to shoot. For some reason (that I cannot explain without resorting to culturally unfamiliar and unproven theories like reincarnation), I suck at almost all sports, but I started shooting at 50 feet and so far have yet to miss the x-ring. I've tried a .22, a .38, a .44, a Glock 9-mm, and so on; the only thing for it was to have a friend in Texas make me a gun and go shoot. So if you're at a range in the DFW area and see a dark-haired, 5'5" chick with a Northern accent who can't figure out which button is the safety and which the magazine release, but if handed a live gun will do the Navy SEAL thing of putting 6 rounds in a group that fits under a 3" x 5" card, that's me. I take no credit for that. It's inexplicable. Everything else I have to practice, and that's no guarantee I'll ever get good, I just get to not feel like a mutant.
(I still think it's way fun, though. I'd resigned myself to klutzhood.)