My gorgeous girlfriend is one of the boys. Not one of those girly-girls clucking about purses and pedicures, she can hang with my crew and debate the greatest heavy metal vocalists of all time, remember the highlights of the 2010 Super Bowl, put away blazing hot Carolina Reaper wings without a napkin; a natural beauty who’s not wasting hours putting on makeup, stunning in nothing but a Black Keys t-shirt. She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty with the power tools, and when she drills through the drywall and misses the stud, her mark off by half an inch, she slams her fist through the wall, slicing open her knuckle. When I ask her what’s wrong, she retreats to her office to watch half of one home improvement clip then seven hours of video podcasts about bodybuilding supplements. She opens the door and the sheet of printer paper wrapped around her hand is soaked through with brown blood and instead of seeking medical treatment, she explains to me the history of American gun laws. When I try to change the subject, she plows ahead as if I’m not there with detailed statistics on murder rates in different cities. My girlfriend has an encyclopedic knowledge of the weapons used by notorious serial killers. I ask her if she wants some help hanging up the autographed guitar, or if she wants to talk, and she tells me she’s driving three hours away to buy a rifle from a gun show that does not require background checks. She’d pass, of course, but she says it’s about the principle. She puts on her sneakers and her phone shows driving directions to the headquarters of Stanley, the company responsible for the tape measure she blames her error on. As she stomps to the garage muttering about vengeance and principles and individual rights, I can’t help but check out her cute butt in those all-American blue jeans, so thankful I found me a guy’s girl.