Lips pinched slightly at the corners, forefinger rubbing slightly at her hairline before her hands fell back and caught the edge of the dresser table, breath pushed out in slight resignation through her nose. She decided to just tell him her part. Not about her mother. "Where I'm from, it's kind of hard not to have a bad experiance with weapons. Guns, knives, those kinds of things. You either end up using them as an extension of yourself. To make yourself more powerful." The mocking was quite obvious in her tone. "Or you end up hating them. Some people fall in the middle. They get them to feel secure, you know? Safe. Usually they end up causing more trouble than they're worth." Fear and weapons. Not the best mix. Neither do kids and weapons. Though Andrea knew better than most people how those stories are blown up. Out of proportion. That a person could have a gun or a knife in their home and be okay. However, in the Slums "okay" and "nothing happening" were two completely different things. Where she came from the violence-in general-happened far too frequently to have any sort of negligent feelings about guns. In her opinion, it was as she said, you either used them or you hated them. Even the fence sitters had leanings. More towards the other way. "In my home? They weren't allowed. Mi abuela would have reemed me a new one if I ever brought any of that mierda home. Heck, I heard about it whenever someone else's kid did." Andrea paused when she realized that she was getting off a bit off topic, rambling about something he very likely could care less about. Blinking slightly and sighing, she said. "I hate them. I've had bad experiances with them. Seeing as I'd be dead if I hadn't gotten a heart transplant. That might be more reason for you to start using weapons but it isn't good enough for me. Don't touch the stuff and I doubt that I ever will."