EDC 101 result blade

Urban Blade Quiet Intent

The first time I started carrying a knife in the city, it felt unnecessary. Not wrong, just excessive. I worked in an office with clean desks and bad coffee. My commute involved a train, a short walk, and a revolving door that never seemed to spin fast enough. Nothing about my day suggested I needed a blade.

And yet I kept reaching for one.

It started with small annoyances. Delivery boxes that refused to open cleanly. Loose threads on a jacket that I kept pretending not to notice. Fruit bought on impulse that I never quite trusted to bite into whole. The city sells you convenience, but it wraps everything in plastic and tape and clamshell packaging that might as well be welded shut. An urban blade, in that context, is less about preparedness and more about refusing to wrestle with shrink wrap using your keys.

That is the practical explanation. It is also incomplete.

Carrying a blade in a rural setting makes intuitive sense. There is an implied relationship with the outdoors, with materials that resist you. In the city, resistance is softer but constant. Cardboard, zip ties, stubborn tags, overbuilt packaging. You can survive without a knife. Most people do. Which makes the choice to carry one feel intentional in a way that other EDC items do not.

Nobody questions your phone. Nobody questions your wallet. A blade, even a small one, asks a question the moment it clips into your pocket.

Why?

For me, the answer changes. Some days it is about utility. Other days it is about rhythm. There is something grounding about having a simple mechanical tool on you. No battery. No screen. No updates. Just a piece of sharpened steel that does one thing well. In a city that constantly asks for your attention, that simplicity feels almost defiant.

I have stopped carrying a knife more than once. Usually after realizing I went a full week without using it. It starts to feel like dead weight, like I am carrying an idea instead of a tool. Then a situation comes up. A box in the mail. A loose thread at a dinner table. A friend struggling with packaging, glancing around for scissors that never appear. I feel the absence immediately. Not dramatic, just inconvenient.

The urban blade lives in that space between inconvenience and intention.

There is also the matter of perception. Pulling out a knife in the middle of a crowded office requires a certain awareness. You learn to be subtle. You open it low, close to your body. You cut what needs cutting without theatrics. You put it away quickly. The goal is not to be noticed. The goal is to solve a small problem and return to normal conversation.

That subtlety shapes the kind of blade you carry. In the city, size becomes less about capability and more about proportion. You are not processing firewood. You are opening mail. A compact folder makes sense. Something that disappears in your pocket and does not drag your pants to one side. The urban blade is about restraint. If it feels like too much, it probably is.

There is a cultural layer to it as well. EDC has a way of drifting toward extremes online. Oversized gear. Aggressive aesthetics. Pockets filled to capacity. In real life, most of us are navigating coffee shops, elevators, shared desks, and public transit. An urban blade has to coexist with all of that. It cannot demand attention. It cannot turn a mundane task into a performance.

I have noticed that carrying a knife changes how I interact with objects. I stop tearing at things. I stop using my teeth for tasks they were never meant for. I take a second, reach into my pocket, and handle the problem cleanly. That pause is small but meaningful. It feels deliberate. In a city built on speed, a deliberate motion stands out, even if no one else sees it.

There is also the quiet satisfaction of maintenance. Wiping the blade down at the end of the week. Touching up the edge. Checking the pivot. These are minor rituals, but they anchor the tool to your routine. You become aware of wear. Scratches accumulate. The finish softens. The knife starts to look like it belongs to you rather than a catalog photo.

At some point, the question shifts from do I need this to do I like who I am when I carry it.

That is harder to answer.

Carrying an urban blade does not make you more capable in any grand sense. It does not transform your commute into an adventure. What it does, at least for me, is reinforce a certain mindset. Be prepared for small friction. Solve problems quietly. Avoid excess. Respect the space you are in.

There are days when I leave it at home on purpose. Minimal pockets. Light carry. Just the basics. Those days feel different. Slightly unanchored, maybe. Or maybe just simpler. I have not decided which is better.

The urban blade is not a statement piece. If it becomes one, you are probably doing it wrong. It is a private tool for public spaces. A reminder that even in a dense, structured environment, there is room for self reliance that does not inconvenience anyone else.

In the end, it is not about the edge itself. It is about the choice to carry something that solves quiet problems before they turn into frustrations. It is about accepting that even in a city of services and subscriptions, you might prefer to handle certain things yourself.

I still question it. Every few months I empty my pockets onto the table and ask what actually earns its place. The knife hovers on the edge of that decision more than anything else I carry.

And somehow, more often than not, it finds its way back into my pocket.

Fixed Blade Kydex and the Quiet Line Between Practical and Unnecessary

I did not start carrying a fixed blade because I needed one. I started because I was tired of thinking about my folding knife.

That probably sounds backwards. A folder is supposed to be the easy choice. It disappears in the pocket, stays polite, plays well with office chairs and grocery store lines. But over time I noticed I was always adjusting it. Clipping it on thicker pants. Moving it to the other side when I sat too long. Taking it out at night with my keys and coins and receipts. It was small, but it was never invisible.

The first time I dropped a fixed blade into my daily rotation, it felt like overcorrecting. A bit dramatic. The kind of move you make after watching too many gear videos late at night. But the reality was less theatrical. I wanted something simple. One piece of steel. No pivot. No lock. No internal parts to think about. Just a tool that existed in one state. Ready or not carried at all.

The kydex sheath was what made it possible. Without that rigid click and defined shape, I would not have tried it. Leather feels good in the hand, but it shifts. It softens. It absorbs the day. Kydex is blunt and honest. It holds the knife in place and does not pretend to be anything else. When you slide the blade in, you know exactly where it sits. When you draw it, there is no negotiation.

That certainty is part of the appeal.

There is a moment when you decide to carry a fixed blade as part of your regular kit, and it has very little to do with tasks. It has more to do with personality. You are choosing visibility over subtlety. Even a small fixed blade on the belt or tucked inside the waistband carries a certain statement. Not aggressive. Just intentional. It says you thought about this.

And that is where the tension lives.

Most daily cutting tasks are unremarkable. Opening a package that should have been easier to open. Trimming a loose thread. Breaking down a box that somehow multiplied in the garage. None of this demands a fixed blade. A cheap utility knife could handle it. Even house keys can get the job done in a pinch.

So why carry one?

For me, it came down to friction. Not physical friction, but mental. A folding knife always asked for a small extra step. Thumb the stud. Check the lock. Close it carefully. A fixed blade removes that conversation. You draw. You cut. You return it to the sheath. Done.

Over weeks, that simplicity started to matter more than I expected. I stopped thinking about the knife as an object and started thinking of it as part of the rhythm of the day. The sheath clipped inside the waistband at the front, just off center. The handle angled slightly for a natural grip. It did not swing. It did not tip sideways. It just stayed where it was supposed to be.

There is also something honest about a fixed blade in an edc kit. It forces you to confront how much you are willing to carry. There is no pretending it disappears like a slim folder. You feel it when you bend. You adjust your belt tension. You think about shirt length. It demands a little space.

That demand makes you evaluate everything else.

When I started carrying a fixed blade regularly, other items quietly fell away. The backup blade went first. Then the small pry bar that mostly opened paint cans once a year. My keychain shrank. My wallet slimmed down. The knife took up physical space, so it required me to make space elsewhere. That trade off felt healthy.

People sometimes assume a fixed blade is about toughness. In my experience it is more about reduction. Fewer moving parts. Fewer decisions. There is comfort in that. A well designed sheath locks the blade in with a precise snap. It does not rattle. It does not shift. The retention is either right or it is not. When it is right, you stop thinking about it entirely.

That is the real goal of any piece of edc gear. Not to impress. Not to perform tricks. Just to fade into the background while remaining ready.

Of course, there are days when I question it. Sitting at a desk for hours, I become aware of the handle pressing lightly against my side. In lighter summer clothing it feels more present. There are social settings where you are more conscious of printing through a shirt. In those moments, I understand why so many people stick with folders.

A fixed blade requires a quiet confidence. Not bravado. Just acceptance that you are carrying something slightly outside the norm. You do not show it off. You do not mention it. You just live with it.

The kydex sheath plays a larger role than most admit. It is the interface between tool and body. A poorly shaped sheath ruins the experience. Too loose and you never trust it. Too tight and every draw feels like a struggle. The good ones disappear into muscle memory. The angle is right. The edges are smoothed where they contact the skin. The clip holds firm without tearing up a belt.

I have found that the best fixed blade for edc is not the biggest you can hide. It is the one that feels proportionate to your actual life. A compact blade that handles cardboard, food, rope, and the occasional improvised task without drama. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing that looks like it belongs in a display case.

In a full edc kit, the fixed blade becomes an anchor. It influences what else you carry. If you trust your knife completely, you might skip the multitool on lighter days. If the blade has a comfortable handle, you are more likely to use it for small repetitive tasks instead of reaching for something disposable. Over time, that changes your relationship with objects. You fix more. You maintain more. You throw away less.

There is also a subtle shift in how you move. Drawing from a sheath is deliberate. It encourages attention. You become aware of where your hands are. You return the blade carefully, listening for that click. It slows you down just enough to stay present.

I do not carry a fixed blade because I expect trouble. I carry it because I appreciate clarity. It is either there or it is not. There is no half open, no loose screw, no wondering if lint has crept into the pivot. It is a simple equation of steel and sheath.

That simplicity is not for everyone. Some people prefer the adaptability of a folder. Some want their knife to vanish completely. That makes sense. EDC is personal in ways that are hard to justify out loud. We carry what aligns with how we see ourselves moving through the world.

For me, the fixed blade with a kydex sheath represents a small refusal. A refusal to overcomplicate. A refusal to carry more than I need. It sits alongside a phone, a slim wallet, a pen that writes consistently, and keys trimmed down to the essentials. Each item has earned its place.

Will I carry it forever. Probably not. EDC evolves with mood, season, and circumstance. There are weeks when I switch back to a folder just to feel the difference. Sometimes I miss the ease of dropping a knife loose into a pocket. Other times I miss the certainty of that firm sheath click when I leave it behind.

That back and forth is part of the culture. There is no final form. No perfect kit.

But when the fixed blade is on me, secure in its kydex shell, I feel a certain calm. Not because it makes me prepared for anything dramatic. Just because it reduces one small category of friction in a day full of minor irritations.

And sometimes that is enough.

Used Blade

I did not mean to buy a used blade. That is the kind of thing you tell yourself after the fact, like you tripped into it. In truth, I went looking for it.

There is something about a blade that has already lived in someone else’s pocket that feels different from pulling a fresh one out of a box. A new knife is all possibility and no memory. A used blade has already made its decisions. The edge has been sharpened by a human hand, not a factory belt. The handle has absorbed oil from skin. There are faint marks near the pivot that no polishing will erase. None of it affects how it cuts tape or slices an apple, but it changes how it feels to carry.

EDC culture talks a lot about intentionality. Slimmer. Lighter. Fewer things. But rarely do we talk about history. Most of us rotate through gear like we are auditioning for a role we have not defined. One month it is a clean stainless folder that disappears in the pocket. The next it is something heavier, darker, more serious looking. We claim it is about function. Usually it is about mood.

A used blade interrupts that cycle a little.

The first time I slipped one into my pocket, I felt like I was borrowing someone else’s handwriting. The action was not as tight as new. It opened with a soft click instead of a crisp snap. The edge had been maintained but not obsessively. It would slice cardboard cleanly, but you could tell it had seen plenty of it already. That familiarity was calming in a way I did not expect.

There is a quiet honesty in a tool that does not pretend to be perfect. A new knife almost dares you to scratch it. You notice every mark. You hesitate before using it for something messy. You wipe it down more than necessary. A used blade removes that tension. The first scuff is already there. You are free to treat it like what it is.

Most of what I cut in a week is boring. Shipping tape. Plastic packaging that resists tearing. Loose threads on a jacket. Fruit at my desk when I forget to pack something easier to eat. None of it requires a pristine edge. It requires something present. Something that opens smoothly without drama and closes without biting your fingers.

When you carry a blade that someone else has already broken in, you feel less like a collector and more like a participant. The tool is not a statement piece. It is part of a chain of small, practical decisions. Someone else once stood in a kitchen or garage or office and made the same motions you are making now. That continuity is subtle, but it changes the relationship.

There is also a financial honesty to it. Paying less for something that works exactly as it should forces you to confront why you ever paid more for something new. EDC can drift into performance. Clean photos. Perfect lighting. The right background. A used blade resists that aesthetic. It does not photograph well unless you lean into the wear. It looks ordinary. That is the point.

I have noticed that when I carry something new, I think about it more. I check the pocket. I flip it open idly. I admire the machining. When I carry a used blade, I forget about it until I need it. That might be the highest compliment you can give any piece of gear.

There is a counter argument, of course. You do not know how it was treated. You do not know if it was sharpened correctly or dropped or taken apart by someone with more confidence than skill. There is a small leap of faith involved. But that uncertainty is closer to real life than most of the controlled environments we try to build around our tools.

Everyday carry is supposed to reflect who you are. Or at least that is what we tell ourselves. Minimalist. Prepared. Practical. The truth is more fluid. Some days I carry a blade because I know I will need it. Some days I carry one because I like the weight of it in my pocket. Some days I leave it at home and feel oddly incomplete by mid afternoon.

A used blade complicates the narrative. It suggests you are less concerned with being the first owner and more concerned with being the next one. It says you care about utility but you are not chasing perfection. It might even admit that you are tired of pretending every purchase is a forever decision.

There is also something grounding about visible wear. We spend so much time curating the visible parts of our lives. Clean shoes. Clean screens. Clean lines. A blade with scratches and softened edges pushes back against that. It has done work. It will continue to do work. It does not need to look untouched to justify its presence.

I have sold off knives that were objectively better on paper. Better steel. Smoother action. More refined finish. They impressed me for a while. But they asked to be appreciated. A used blade asks to be used. That distinction matters more than I thought it would.

Carrying one has also made me less precious about the rest of my setup. If the knife can have a past, why not the wallet or the watch or the pen? Not everything needs to arrive in perfect condition to earn a place in your pocket. Sometimes a little history makes the object feel less like a prop and more like a companion.

None of this is romantic. A blade is still just a tool. It opens boxes. It trims things that are too long. It solves small inconveniences. But the condition it arrives in can shape how you relate to it. A used blade carries the quiet reminder that tools are meant to move through hands, not sit untouched.

I do not always carry one. Sometimes I go back to something new and crisp, and I enjoy that too. There is nothing wrong with liking fresh edges and clean lines. But when I slip that worn handle into my pocket again, I feel a subtle shift. Less performance. More participation.

In a culture that often treats gear like identity, choosing a used blade feels like stepping slightly to the side. It is not a rejection of quality or care. It is a quiet refusal to treat every object as a symbol. Sometimes it is enough that the blade opens, cuts, and closes. The rest is just story.

Spey Blade in a World That Forgot Why It Exists

The first time I slipped a spey blade into my pocket, it felt like I was carrying someone else’s habit.

Not a tactical statement. Not a modern utility flex. Just a blade shape that made more sense a hundred years ago than it does now. Rounded tip, long gentle belly, no aggressive point to speak of. It looked unfinished, like someone forgot to sharpen the last inch.

And that was the point.

Most of what we carry today leans toward versatility in theory and sameness in practice. Drop points, modified clips, shapes designed to do a bit of everything and nothing too strangely. The spey blade never tried to do everything. It was born for one very specific job on a farm, and that job does not show up in my daily calendar. I work at a desk. I open boxes. I break down cardboard. I cut fruit at lunch when I forget to bring something better.

So why carry a spey blade at all?

That question stayed with me for weeks.

There is something about the absence of a sharp tip that changes how you use a knife. With a pointed blade, you are always aware of that tip. It leads. It wants to pierce. You find yourself using it even when you do not need to. You pick at tape. You dig into packaging seams. You poke first and slice second.

The spey blade removes that impulse. There is no needle point to guide you. You have to commit to the cut itself. The belly does the work. The motion becomes more deliberate, almost agricultural. It wants a pull cut. It wants contact.

It sounds romantic when written out like that, but in practice it just feels calmer.

Opening mail with a spey blade feels oddly polite. Breaking down a box becomes a series of controlled arcs instead of stabs and tears. Even cutting an apple feels different. There is less drama to it. The knife does not look like it is trying to prove anything.

I started to notice how much of modern carry culture revolves around looking capable. Blades that look ready. Tools that imply preparedness for situations most of us will never encounter. There is nothing wrong with capability, but sometimes it drifts into theater.

The spey blade has no theater left in it.

It looks like it belongs in a drawer next to baling twine and an old pair of gloves. It does not photograph well. It does not catch light in a way that makes people ask questions. Most non knife people do not even recognize the shape. They just see a small folding knife with a rounded tip.

And that is part of its appeal.

In everyday life, subtlety is underrated. I do not need my knife to announce itself when I use it at a picnic table or in the office kitchen. A spey blade reads as utilitarian in the most unremarkable way. It feels closer to a tool than a symbol.

There is also something quietly disciplined about choosing a blade with limitations. The lack of a sharp tip means certain tasks are simply off the table. Fine detail work is harder. Piercing into tough material takes more intention. You cannot cheat your way into a cut with a quick jab.

At first that felt like a compromise. Over time it felt like a filter.

Everyday carry, at least for me, is less about being ready for anything and more about being honest about what actually happens during a normal day. I am not carving traps. I am not whittling tent stakes. I am trimming loose threads, slicing open stubborn plastic, cutting zip ties, and occasionally sharpening a pencil because I prefer that to using a mechanical one.

The spey blade handles those tasks with a steady, almost boring competence. It does not excel in a flashy way. It just works within its lane.

There is a mindset shift that comes with that. Instead of asking whether a tool can do more, I start asking whether I really need more.

I have rotated other blades back into my pocket out of habit. A clean drop point feels familiar. A clip point looks sharper even before it touches anything. For a few days I enjoy the precision of a fine tip. Then I notice myself overusing it. Digging into things. Treating simple materials like they require surgical entry.

And eventually I drift back to the spey.

It reminds me of the difference between capability and necessity. A lot of EDC conversations orbit around edge retention, steel type, lock strength. Those details matter to a point. But the shape of a blade influences behavior more than people admit. It nudges you toward certain movements. It encourages certain kinds of use.

The spey blade encourages restraint.

There is also something grounding about carrying a pattern that predates the current wave of knife culture. It connects you to a time when a knife was a farm tool first and a hobby second. The original purpose of the spey blade was practical and specific. It was designed to minimize accidental puncture during controlled cuts. That design priority still shows.

In modern life, that translates into a blade that is forgiving. When I reach into a crowded drawer to grab it, I am not worried about the tip catching on something. When I hand it to someone to cut a tag off a new jacket, I do not feel the need to give a safety speech.

It is a small thing, but small things are the entire point of everyday carry.

There are days when I question it. When I look at the rounded tip and think it feels outdated. When I wonder if I am carrying it just to be different. That is always a risk in any niche culture. You start to define yourself by what you choose.

But the longer I carry a spey blade, the less it feels like a statement. It feels like a correction. A quiet adjustment away from excess capability toward enough.

That word matters. Enough.

Enough edge to handle daily tasks. Enough control to avoid unintended punctures. Enough history to feel connected to something older than current trends. No more than that.

The spey blade is not the most efficient shape for everything. It is not the most popular. It will never dominate the conversation in forums or comment sections. It does not look aggressive or sleek. It looks practical in a way that borders on plain.

And maybe that is why it keeps finding its way back into my pocket.

Everyday carry is supposed to reflect your actual life, not an imagined one. When I am honest about my routines, my environments, my habits, the spey blade makes more sense than most of the alternatives.

It is not exciting. It is not impressive. It is simply appropriate.

In a culture that often equates preparedness with escalation, carrying a blade that cannot easily stab feels almost rebellious. Not loud rebellion. Just a small refusal to overdo it.

I still rotate other knives. I still question my setup. That uncertainty is part of the process. But whenever I want my carry to feel grounded again, I reach for the rounded tip.

The spey blade does not ask to be admired. It asks to be used, and then put away.

For most days, that is more than enough.

The Blade Steel Chart Is Not the Map You Think It Is

At some point, if you carry a knife long enough, you end up staring at a blade steel chart.

It usually happens late at night. You are not shopping, at least that is what you tell yourself. You are just curious. You want to understand why one steel holds an edge longer, why another sharpens easier, why people argue in comment sections as if they are defending family honor instead of metallurgy.

So you open the chart.

Rows and columns. Letters and numbers. Hardness ratings. Corrosion resistance. Edge retention. Toughness. It looks scientific, which makes it feel decisive. Like if you study it long enough, you will arrive at the correct answer and finally settle your carry for good.

That never actually happens.

The first time I looked at one of those charts, I thought I had been careless. I had been carrying whatever came on the knife I liked the look of. I paid attention to the shape, the size, how it sat in my pocket. The steel was just a line in the specs. Suddenly it felt like I had skipped the important part.

Charts do that. They imply hierarchy. They suggest that if you are not carrying something near the top right corner, you are compromising in a way that matters.

But here is the thing. Most of what I cut in a week is cardboard, tape, loose threads, fruit, the occasional stubborn plastic package. I am not testing edge retention against a rope factory. I am opening boxes on the kitchen counter. I am breaking down shipping cartons in the garage. I am slicing an apple on a Tuesday afternoon because I skipped lunch.

In that context, the steel chart starts to feel abstract.

I have carried blades made from simple steels that some people dismiss as basic. They took a little more maintenance. They spotted if I forgot to wipe them down. They needed a touch up on a stone sooner than the super steels everyone praises. And yet, in daily use, they felt honest. I could bring the edge back in a few minutes without thinking about it. There was something satisfying about that rhythm. Use it. Sharpen it. Repeat.

Then I carried a knife made from one of the modern high hardness steels that sit proudly near the top of those charts. It held its edge for what felt like forever. Weeks went by and it still sliced cleanly. I remember feeling vaguely superior about it, which is ridiculous. It is just steel. But there is a quiet ego boost in knowing you are carrying something technically advanced.

Until it gets dull.

When it finally did need sharpening, it reminded me that edge retention is only half the story. I spent more time than I expected trying to bring it back. The process felt less casual, more like a task. I caught myself putting it off. That is when I realized something uncomfortable. I prefer a knife that invites maintenance over one that delays it.

No chart captures that.

Blade steel charts are built around measurable traits. Hardness can be tested. Corrosion resistance can be observed. Toughness can be compared. But there is no column for how a steel makes you feel when you actually live with it. There is no metric for whether you enjoy sharpening it on a quiet Sunday morning. No rating for whether you trust it even if you cannot fully explain why.

EDC is not a lab environment. It is a series of small decisions repeated daily. Which pocket. Which tool. Which compromises you are willing to accept.

The steel debate often turns into a search for permanence. People want to choose once and be done. They want the best combination of edge retention, toughness, and stain resistance so they never have to think about it again.

But carry culture does not really work like that. We change. Our routines shift. One year you work at a desk and open packages all day. The next year you are outside more and your knife sees dirt, moisture, and neglect. The steel that made sense before might not feel right anymore.

I have noticed that when someone talks obsessively about steel charts, they are usually in a phase. I have been there. Reading about carbides. Comparing heat treatments. Trying to decode acronyms like they are secret knowledge. It feels productive. It feels like you are refining your setup with intention.

Sometimes you are just avoiding the simpler question. Does this knife fit your actual life?

There is also a strange cultural layer to steel discussions. Certain steels become status symbols. They signal that you know what you are doing. That you did your research. Carrying one can feel like wearing a subtle badge. No one else in the room may notice, but you know.

That matters more than most people admit.

I have downsized my carry before, switched to a smaller blade with a more modest steel, and felt a quiet relief. Less to worry about. Less to baby. If it picked up a scratch or a stain, it felt like part of the story rather than damage to a prized object. I used it more freely. That freedom made it more valuable to me than any top tier ranking on a chart.

None of this means steel does not matter. It does. Some steels clearly outperform others in specific areas. If you live in a humid climate, corrosion resistance stops being theoretical. If you hate sharpening, edge retention becomes a real quality of life factor. Ignoring material differences is not enlightened. It is just uninformed.

But elevating the chart above lived experience is its own mistake.

A blade steel chart is a snapshot of properties under controlled conditions. Your pocket is not controlled. Your habits are not controlled. You might loan your knife to a friend who uses it to scrape something it was never meant to scrape. You might forget it in a damp jacket. You might go months without touching a sharpening stone.

The best steel for you is not the one with the highest numbers. It is the one that matches your tolerance for maintenance, your environment, and your personality.

Some people enjoy the ritual of care. Others want a tool that disappears into the background until needed. Some like knowing they carry something technically advanced. Others prefer something simple and proven.

If you are honest, the chart is just the starting point. It can inform you. It can narrow the field. It can prevent obvious mistakes. But it cannot decide for you.

I still look at them sometimes. I still compare. I still feel that small pull toward whatever sits at the top of the toughness and edge retention columns. Then I close the tab and reach into my pocket.

The knife I actually carry says more about me than any chart ever could.