I have something to tell you.
Being a knife is not fun.
And this is coming from first hand experience, not second hand, and certainly not from my mother's brother-in-law's second cousin, three times removed on his fathers side.
Why? You might ask; would I have first hand experience?
Because I am a knife.
Let me give you a little insight on what it's like to be a knife, a thiefs knife to be precise.
It's always dark.
Always a black, colourless void deep inside the confines of the pocket. Which of course is the most convenient place for a knife such as myself to be stored. It's within easy access, always on hand in the most trying of times, such as when getting caught while robbing a convenience store. It's always nice to know that I am there to change the tide in a violent confrontation. After all, you never know when the opposing person could pull out a club or a bat or a wrench, or another weapon of formidable force.
But it's not often that I am used, my thief tends to run rather than fight. And often has no need to run, because he is never caught.
So I sit, and wait. Patiently of course, for I was taught that patience is a virtue. And I remain in the darkness until such a time comes when I need to be used. And all the while I sing "Mack the Knife."
