EDC 101 result EDC gear

The Quiet Case for a Waterproof Battery Capsule

I did not start carrying spare batteries because I thought I was headed into the wilderness. I started because my flashlight died in a parking garage and I had to finish the walk to my car using my phone screen like a teenager sneaking around after curfew. It was not dramatic. It was just inconvenient enough to bother me for days.

That is usually how something earns a place in my pocket. Not through heroics. Through mild irritation.

A waterproof battery capsule sounds like something you buy after watching too many survival videos. In reality it is a small tube that rattles around at the bottom of a bag until the one time you need it, and then suddenly it feels justified. The logic is simple. If you rely on a light, or a small radio, or anything else that runs on replaceable cells, you are trusting a chemical reaction that will eventually quit without asking your permission. Having replacements is not dramatic. It is just acknowledging how batteries work.

The waterproof part is what makes it interesting.

Loose batteries in a pocket collect lint and regret. Toss them in a backpack and they roll into corners you will never see again. A capsule turns them into a contained decision. It says these are not random extras. These are here on purpose.

I resisted the idea at first. It felt like overkill. My daily life involves sidewalks, coffee shops, office buildings, grocery stores. I am not fording rivers. I am not caught in monsoons. Why would I need a waterproof container for something that already lives in a climate controlled world?

Then I remembered how often my bag ends up on the floor of a car during a rainstorm. How often a water bottle sweats through the fabric. How a spilled drink in a crowded place can travel farther than you expect. Waterproof does not have to mean heroic. Sometimes it just means realistic.

The capsule I carry now is about the size of my thumb. It holds exactly what I allow it to hold and nothing more. That limitation matters. EDC has a way of expanding if you let it. One spare battery becomes three. Three become a backup for something you do not even carry anymore. The container sets the boundary. This is the space. Fill it wisely.

There is something satisfying about unscrewing a small sealed tube and knowing the contents are dry and intact. It feels deliberate. Like you prepared for a very boring but very predictable problem. Dead batteries are not a crisis. They are entropy. The capsule is a quiet argument against entropy.

I have questioned carrying it more than once. Every item in a daily setup has to defend its weight. Some days I empty my pockets at night and line everything up on the desk. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Knife. Flashlight. And that small metal cylinder. I ask myself if I am carrying fear instead of practicality.

The honest answer is that I carry inconvenience avoidance. I dislike being dependent on finding a store at the exact moment something runs out of power. I dislike throwing away a perfectly good device because I did not plan for its appetite. The capsule is not about surviving the elements. It is about staying self contained.

There is also a psychological shift that happens when you carry spare power. You use your gear differently. I used to ration my flashlight as if each activation was a negotiation. Now I use it freely. If I need light under a desk, I turn it on. If I drop something at night, I do not hesitate. Knowing I have replacements changes my behavior in small ways that add up.

That is the part no one really talks about. EDC is not just about having objects. It is about how those objects alter your posture toward the day. A waterproof battery capsule says I expect things to run out. I expect weather to exist. I expect minor failure. And I am fine with that.

It also says I am not going to carry more than I need. The capsule forces a decision about battery type. You commit to one format. If your gear is scattered across different power sources, you either simplify or you accept chaos. In that sense the capsule becomes a filter. It pushes you toward a more coherent setup.

There is a cultural layer to it too. In some circles, carrying spare batteries is treated like a signal. It hints at preparedness culture, at the idea that the world is always one step away from going sideways. I understand the appeal, but that is not why mine rides in my bag. I carry it because modern life is powered by small cylinders filled with chemicals, and those cylinders have an expiration date.

Most of my days are uneventful. Commute. Work. Errands. Home. The capsule rarely leaves its place. Months can pass without me opening it. That used to make me question it. If I never use it, does it belong?

Then one afternoon my kid’s small flashlight went dark during a backyard campout that was more about marshmallows than wilderness. I walked inside, unscrewed the capsule, and handed over fresh batteries. The night continued without interruption. No one praised the foresight. No one even noticed. That is exactly how I prefer it.

The best EDC items are the ones that solve problems so smoothly they disappear from the story.

There is a discipline in carrying something that you hope remains boring. It is easy to justify tools that feel active and immediate. Harder to justify a sealed tube that represents potential. But potential is part of the mindset. You are not predicting disaster. You are smoothing out friction.

I do not think everyone needs a waterproof battery capsule. Some people rely entirely on rechargeable gear and are happy to manage cables instead. Others are comfortable gambling on whatever charge they left the house with. There is no moral high ground here.

For me, it comes down to one quiet preference. I would rather carry a few grams of certainty than experience that low level annoyance when something dies at the wrong time. Not the end of the world. Just enough to sour an otherwise normal day.

At some point you stop seeing the capsule as a special item. It becomes part of the background, like the stitching in your pocket. You forget it is there until you need it. And when you do need it, you are reminded that everyday carry is less about the dramatic edge cases and more about the small predictable failures we pretend will not happen.

Batteries die. Drinks spill. Rain shows up uninvited. The waterproof capsule does not fight any of that. It simply keeps a tiny reserve of order in a world that tends toward disorder.

That is enough reason for me.

New Knives and the Quiet Reset

There is a certain restlessness that shows up when a new knife lands on the table. Not because the old one failed. Not because it chipped or rusted or embarrassed you in front of a cardboard box. Just because something in your pocket has started to feel too familiar.

I tell myself I am immune to that feeling. I carry a knife because it is useful. It opens things. It trims loose threads. It deals with the annoying plastic clamshell packaging that refuses to cooperate. It is a small, mechanical answer to small, daily friction. That is the whole story, or at least that is what I prefer to believe.

Then a new knife shows up and the whole internal speech falls apart.

It usually begins with a photo I did not need to look at. A shape that feels slightly cleaner than what I have. A handle that seems like it might sit better against the seam of my pocket. Nothing dramatic. Just a subtle shift in proportion. I start imagining how it would feel during that mid afternoon moment when I am breaking down shipping boxes in the garage. Or when I am slicing an apple at my desk because I forgot to pack anything more interesting for lunch.

The new knife becomes a quiet what if.

The strange thing is that knives do not change much. We pretend they do. We talk about steel and geometry and lock strength as if we are discussing philosophy. In reality, most of them will handle the same daily tasks with equal indifference. The cardboard does not care. The tape does not care. The loose thread on your jacket certainly does not care.

So why the urge?

Part of it is tactile. A knife is one of the few objects in modern life that asks to be handled. It has weight. It has resistance. It makes a sound when it opens. In a world of glass screens and silent swipes, that mechanical feedback feels grounding. A new knife promises a slightly different conversation between your hand and a piece of steel. Maybe smoother. Maybe more deliberate. Maybe just different enough to notice.

There is also the reset factor.

Swapping to a new knife feels like reorganizing your desk without actually cleaning it. You are not solving a problem. You are shifting perspective. The first week with a new blade is full of awareness. You notice how often you reach for it. You pay attention to how it rides in your pocket. You are careful when you close it. There is intention again.

Over time, that awareness fades. The knife becomes background equipment. Reliable, yes. Appreciated, probably. But invisible in the way only daily objects can be.

A new knife interrupts that invisibility.

I carried the same one for years at one point. It was slim, understated, and did everything I needed. I told myself I had found the answer. Then one afternoon I realized I had stopped noticing it entirely. It had become part of the uniform. Wallet, phone, keys, knife. No thought involved.

That realization bothered me more than it should have. EDC, at least for me, is not about accumulation. It is about attention. The things I choose to carry are small declarations about how I move through the day. When one of those choices turns automatic, I start to question whether I am still choosing.

So I rotated in something new. Slightly larger. Slightly heavier. Not better. Just different.

The first day felt awkward. The pocket balance was off. I kept brushing against it with my hand as if confirming it was still there. Opening it required a bit more intention. It forced me to slow down in tiny, almost invisible ways. Cutting open a package felt like a deliberate act instead of a reflex.

That small friction was refreshing.

Of course, there is a line between thoughtful rotation and constant chasing. New knives can become a distraction from the discipline that EDC is supposed to encourage. It is easy to convince yourself that the next one will finally align with your ideal setup. The perfect weight. The perfect length. The perfect balance between subtle and substantial.

Perfection is a moving target. The more you look for it, the further it drifts.

I have learned that when I start browsing too much, it usually means something else is off. Maybe I am bored. Maybe I want change in a place that feels safe to change. A knife is controllable. It is a small lever I can pull without disrupting anything important. That makes it tempting.

There is nothing wrong with appreciating new design or craftsmanship. Curiosity is part of the culture. But I try to ask myself a quiet question before making the switch: am I solving a real friction point, or am I just restless?

Sometimes the answer is restless. And sometimes that is enough.

New knives can also reveal what you actually value. I once thought I preferred something substantial, something that felt serious in the hand. Then I spent a month carrying a lighter, simpler piece and realized how much I enjoy forgetting it is there until I need it. The experiment corrected my self image. I am less rugged than I imagined. More practical. Maybe even a little lazy.

A new knife can expose those small truths.

It can also remind you that tools are personal in ways that are hard to articulate. Two people can carry the same object and attach completely different meanings to it. For one, it is preparedness. For another, it is craftsmanship. For someone else, it is just habit passed down from a parent who always had one in their pocket.

When I try a new knife, I am not just evaluating the object. I am measuring how it fits into my version of preparedness. Do I feel more capable with it? Or just more entertained?

There is a difference.

The most honest outcome is not always keeping the new thing. Sometimes the experiment sends you back to the old standby with a kind of relief. You slip it into your pocket and it feels like coming home. The clip sits exactly where you expect. The opening motion is second nature. The edge meets cardboard at the familiar angle. No surprises.

That return carries its own satisfaction. You chose it again, this time with comparison behind you.

In that sense, new knives are not about upgrading. They are about recalibrating. They test your assumptions. They shake loose your habits. They force you to pay attention to something you stopped seeing.

And occasionally, one sticks. Not because it is objectively superior, but because it aligns with where you are at that moment. Maybe your days have become more desk bound and you want something slimmer. Maybe you are spending more time outside and prefer a bit more substance in hand. Life shifts in subtle ways. Your carry can reflect that without becoming theatrical.

I do not think there is a final knife. I used to. I thought the goal was to narrow it down to one perfect tool and close the chapter. Now I suspect the chapter never really closes. It just gets quieter.

The real discipline is not in resisting every new knife. It is in understanding why you are drawn to one. If the answer is curiosity, that can be healthy. If the answer is insecurity or comparison, that is worth noticing too.

In the end, the knife in your pocket is still going to open packages and trim threads. It will sit quietly while you sit in traffic. It will rest on the counter while you make a simple lunch. It will do ordinary work in an ordinary life.

A new knife will not transform that life. But it might sharpen your awareness of it for a while. And sometimes, that small reset is reason enough to make the switch.

The Small Circle That Keeps Me Honest

I started carrying a compact EDC compass on a day when I did not technically need one.

It was a Saturday morning, clear sky, familiar trail. The kind of place with wooden signs at every fork and a parking lot that never really lets you forget which direction civilization sits. I had my phone in my pocket with a map that could redraw the world in seconds. Still, I slipped a small compass into the coin pocket of my jeans before I left the house.

I told myself it was just to see if I would notice it.

That is usually how these things begin. Not with a survival fantasy or a dramatic backstory. Just a quiet curiosity. A question about whether I rely too much on glowing rectangles. A suspicion that maybe I have outsourced a basic human sense.

A compact compass does not impress anyone. It does not have the quiet authority of a knife or the obvious utility of a flashlight. It does not even look particularly serious. It is a small circle with a nervous needle that never quite settles down. If you lay it on a table next to the rest of your carry, it looks like it wandered in by mistake.

That is part of the appeal.

Everyday carry is usually about solving problems faster. Opening things, tightening things, illuminating things. A compass does not solve much in the moment. It does something subtler. It tells you where north is. That is it. You have to do the rest.

The first time I actually used mine was not in the woods. It was downtown.

I walked out of a parking garage into a part of the city I do not visit often. Tall buildings, narrow streets, the sun bouncing off glass in ways that flatten everything. I had an address in mind but decided not to pull out my phone right away. I wanted to try something else.

I stepped to the side, took the compass out, and waited for the needle to calm down. People walked past without noticing. A few probably assumed I was checking the time. I knew the address was on the north side of the street I was aiming for. That was enough. I oriented myself, picked a direction, and started walking.

Was it faster than using a map app? Probably not. Was it more efficient? Definitely not.

But it forced me to pay attention. I looked at street signs. I counted blocks. I noticed how the grid shifted slightly as I moved. The city felt less like a blue dot on a screen and more like a place with structure.

That is when I realized why the compass stayed in my pocket.

It is not there because I expect to get lost in the wilderness. It is there because I am already a little lost in softer ways. I drift through routines, let algorithms decide my routes, trust that I can always zoom out if I need context. The compass interrupts that drift.

There is something grounding about physically turning your body until the needle lines up. You are not swiping. You are aligning yourself with something that does not care about your battery percentage. North is north whether you are paying attention or not.

Carrying a compact compass also exposes an uncomfortable truth about EDC. We say we carry what we use. We praise minimalism and talk about trimming down. A compass challenges that logic. It is a tool you hope to never truly need. It takes up space, however small, for a scenario that may never arrive.

So why not leave it at home?

Because everyday carry is not only about frequency of use. It is about identity. It is about the quiet statement you make to yourself each morning when you decide what is worth the pocket space.

Some people carry a pen even if they rarely write by hand. Some carry a notebook for thoughts that might never come. A compass fits into that category. It represents a belief that orientation matters. That knowing where you stand in relation to the world is not a bad habit to cultivate.

I have taken mine on road trips where the highways stretch straight for miles and the sun slides from one window to the other. At gas stations in unfamiliar towns, I will sometimes check it before getting back in the car. Not because I cannot follow signs, but because I want to keep that small skill alive. East in the morning. West in the afternoon. Simple things that used to be common knowledge.

There is also a humility to it. A compact compass is not a grand instrument. It can be thrown off by metal, confused by carelessness, ignored entirely. It demands a bit of patience. You have to hold it level. You have to stop moving for a second. In a culture that rewards constant motion, that pause feels almost rebellious.

I will admit there are weeks when I take it out of my rotation. When pocket space feels tight and practicality wins. Nothing catastrophic happens. I manage just fine. The world does not tilt off its axis because I left a tiny circle on my dresser.

And yet, after a while, I miss it.

I miss the option. I miss the small ritual of checking direction before setting off on a long walk. I miss the reminder that orientation is a skill, not just a service provided by satellites.

Compact tools have a way of slipping under the radar. They do not dominate your carry. They do not demand attention. The compass is almost shy. But it changes how you move through space. It nudges you to think in terms of cardinal directions instead of just left and right. It makes you aware that every building, every park, every coffee shop sits somewhere on a larger grid.

There is comfort in that. Not dramatic comfort. Not the kind that makes you feel prepared for anything. Just a quiet reassurance that you can still find your bearings without asking permission from a screen.

When I empty my pockets at night, the compass usually ends up near my keys. Small, round, unassuming. It looks insignificant next to everything else. But I know that tomorrow, if I slip it back into that coin pocket, I will walk a little differently.

Maybe I will notice where the sun rises between the buildings. Maybe I will realize that the grocery store sits slightly southeast of my apartment. Maybe I will never take it out at all.

The point is not that I am preparing for disaster. The point is that I am practicing attention.

A compact EDC compass is not about escaping into the wild. It is about refusing to drift entirely. It is about carrying a physical reminder that the world has a structure, and that you are capable of understanding it.

It is a small circle. A thin needle. Hardly worth mentioning.

And somehow, it keeps me honest.

The Multi Tool That Actually Earns Its Pocket Space

Every few months I empty my pockets onto the kitchen counter and study the pile like it belongs to someone else. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Knife. And then the question mark item. The thing that sneaks in, overstays its welcome, or quietly proves itself indispensable. Lately that question has been the multi tool.

Not the fantasy version. Not the one with thirty functions I will never touch. Just the one that makes sense when you are standing in a parking lot trying to tighten something that should not have come loose in the first place.

People love asking what the best multi tool is for an everyday carry kit. The honest answer is uncomfortable. The best one is the one that survives your own second guessing.

A multi tool is an argument with yourself. It says you believe small problems are worth being prepared for. It also says you are willing to carry extra weight just in case the day asks more from you than expected. That tension never really goes away.

I used to carry a larger one. Full size. Felt serious. It had pliers that could actually grip something without slipping. Screwdrivers that did not feel like suggestions. It rode on my belt for a while because I told myself that was practical. The truth is I liked how it looked. It signaled competence in a quiet way.

Then summer showed up. Light shirt. No jacket. Suddenly the tool felt like a brick. I started leaving it in the car. Which meant it was not really everyday carry anymore. It was occasional carry with good intentions.

That is the part people skip over. The best multi tool is the one that does not get left behind.

These days I lean smaller. Something that disappears into a pocket organizer or rests next to my knife without creating a noticeable bulge. It does not have to do everything. It just has to do a few things well enough that I reach for it without thinking.

Pliers matter more than I expected. Not because I am fixing machinery on the side of the road. More because modern life is full of small metal annoyances. A loose cabinet pull. A stubborn battery cover. A bent key ring. Tasks that technically can be handled with fingernails and patience, but are better handled with leverage.

The screwdriver is the quiet hero. Office chair gets wobbly. Kid’s toy starts rattling. Light switch plate drifts out of alignment. None of these are emergencies. All of them become mildly irritating if ignored. A multi tool turns a future chore into a thirty second pause.

And then there are the tools you think you will never use. The tiny file. The small scissors. The awl. You tell yourself they are unnecessary until the day you need to smooth a rough edge on a cheap plastic part or trim a loose thread before a meeting. The win is never dramatic. It is just satisfying.

The best multi tool for an everyday carry gear kit is not about capability in the abstract. It is about friction. How much friction does it add to your pocket? How much friction does it remove from your day?

Weight is part of it. Thickness is part of it. So is how it feels in your hand. Some tools feel like a compromise before you even open them. Edges too sharp. Handles too narrow. Implements that clump together and fight you. If using it feels annoying, you will find reasons not to.

I think people underestimate how personal this is. A multi tool sits in the same space as your wallet and knife. It competes for attention. If it constantly reminds you that it is there, you start negotiating with yourself. Maybe I do not need this today. Maybe I will just rely on the office drawer or the glove box.

But if it integrates quietly, if it becomes background noise, it earns trust. You stop thinking of it as gear and start thinking of it as insurance against inconvenience.

There is also the identity piece, whether we admit it or not. Carrying a multi tool says something different than carrying just a knife. A knife can feel minimal. Clean. Focused. A multi tool feels practical. Slightly utilitarian. Less romantic. More honest.

I have noticed that when my life feels cluttered, I scale back my carry. Slim wallet. Smaller knife. No extras. When things feel stable, I allow the multi tool back in. It is like I have more mental space for preparedness when I am not overwhelmed.

That probably sounds backwards. You would think chaos demands more tools. For me it is the opposite. If I am stretched thin, I want simplicity. If I am grounded, I can afford redundancy.

There is no perfect setup. Some days I miss the larger pliers. Other days I am grateful I am not lugging them around. The best multi tool lives in that compromise. It handles eighty percent of what shows up. The remaining twenty percent can wait.

And that is the part that matters. Everyday carry is not about covering every scenario. It is about smoothing the edges of normal life. The multi tool that belongs in your kit is the one that aligns with your version of normal.

Maybe you work with your hands and need something substantial. Maybe you sit at a desk and just want to avoid hunting for a screwdriver three times a week. Maybe you just like knowing that when something small goes wrong, you can fix it without asking around.

When I dump my pockets now, the multi tool no longer feels like a question mark. It feels like a quiet decision I already made. Not because it is the best in some universal sense. Not because it wins on paper. But because it fits the shape of my days.

If I ever stop carrying it, it will not be because a better one came along. It will be because my days changed.

That is how you know a piece of everyday carry gear belongs. It keeps up with your life without demanding that your life revolve around it.

The Case for Carrying a Titanium Spinning Top

There is a small titanium spinning top in the coin pocket of my jeans right now. It is not there because I need it. It is there because sometimes my hands need something to do that does not involve my phone.

I did not set out to become the kind of person who carries a spinning top. For a long time I thought of it as desk toy territory, the sort of object that lives next to a monitor and gets spun during long calls. It felt stationary. Decorative. Slightly unserious. Then one afternoon I found myself in a waiting room with nothing but my keys and wallet, scrolling through the same news feed three times in a row. I remember thinking that I carry a knife I rarely use and a flashlight that mostly checks dark corners under my car seat, yet I had nothing for my own attention span.

That is how the top slipped into my rotation.

Titanium, specifically, makes the decision more interesting. It is excessive for something so simple. A spinning top could be plastic from a dollar bin. It could be wood, nostalgic and light. Titanium turns it into a commitment. It gives it weight without bulk. It makes it feel like it belongs with the rest of the metal in my pockets. Keys. Blade. Coin. The top does not apologize for being there.

Carrying it forced me to confront a question that sits under most EDC choices. Is this tool solving a real problem, or is it solving a private one?

On paper, a spinning top does nothing. It does not cut, pry, illuminate, tighten, or measure. It converts a small flick of your fingers into motion and then it stops. That is the entire job description.

But in practice, it interrupts loops. The mental kind.

I spin it when I am on hold and the music starts to grate. I spin it when I am early to meet someone and do not want to default to my screen. I spin it at my desk when I feel the urge to check messages that do not need checking. The act is simple. Thumb and forefinger. A quick twist. A soft metallic hum against whatever surface is available. For a few seconds I watch something obey physics instead of algorithms.

It is not dramatic. It is not transformative. It is just enough.

There is also something honest about the motion. A spinning top has no hidden feature. You see all of it at once. When it wobbles, you know it is about to fall. When it falls, it is done. There is no notification, no vibration, no demand for more input. It asks for a moment of attention and then releases it.

That might be the real reason it earns pocket space.

EDC culture often circles around preparedness. Be ready. Anticipate friction. Solve problems before they become problems. I respect that mindset. At the same time, most of my daily friction is internal. Impatience. Restlessness. The reflex to reach for stimulation. The top addresses that in a way that feels oddly aligned with the rest of my carry. It is a tool for restraint.

The titanium adds another layer to that restraint. It is cool to the touch when I first pull it out. It has enough mass to feel deliberate but not enough to drag down a pocket. Over time it has picked up faint marks from tabletops and concrete ledges. None of them affect performance. They just record contact with ordinary places.

I have noticed that people react differently to it than to other pocket items. If I set a knife on a table, even a small one, the energy shifts. It becomes an object that needs context. The top, on the other hand, invites curiosity. Someone will ask to try it. They will give it an awkward spin at first, then a better one. Conversation follows without effort.

There is something disarming about a grown adult carrying a spinning top. It suggests you are either deeply serious about trivial things or not serious enough about serious ones. I am fine with that ambiguity.

Of course, it does raise the question of space. Pocket real estate is limited. Every item competes. When I switch bags or change jackets, I sometimes leave the top behind. On those days I tell myself it is unnecessary weight. Minimalism feels cleaner. More disciplined.

And yet I notice its absence.

My hand will drift to the coin pocket out of habit and find nothing. In a quiet moment I will reach for a distraction and default back to the phone. The difference is subtle but real. The top creates a small buffer between impulse and action. Without it, I slide more easily into noise.

There is also the ritual of the spin itself. It requires a surface. Not every table works. Some are too soft. Some are uneven. There is a brief evaluation before each launch. I like that. It asks me to pay attention to my surroundings in a low stakes way. Is this counter level enough? Will the edge interfere? It turns idle time into a small experiment.

The sound is part of it too. On a solid surface the spin produces a faint, steady whisper. On glass it is sharper. On wood it is warmer. You start to recognize the differences. You start to anticipate the wobble before it happens.

None of this is necessary. That is the point.

EDC can drift into justification. We tell ourselves we carry something because one day it might matter. The spinning top refuses that narrative. It matters only in the moment you use it. It has no future payoff. It will not save time later. It will not rescue you from inconvenience. It simply occupies a few seconds with intention.

I think that is why titanium feels appropriate. The material is known for strength and endurance. Pairing it with something so fleeting creates a quiet tension. A nearly indestructible object devoted to a temporary act. Spin. Balance. Fall. Repeat.

I do not carry it every single day. Some weeks it stays on the dresser. Other weeks it feels essential. That inconsistency is honest. EDC is not a fixed identity. It shifts with mood, season, workload. The top moves in and out of rotation without ceremony.

When it is with me, I am slightly more patient. Slightly less reactive. I give my hands a job so my mind can slow down. That might sound like a small return for the pocket space it occupies. It is. But small returns add up.

At the end of the day, when I empty my pockets onto the nightstand, the top usually rolls a little before settling. A final, accidental spin. I do not think about it much. I just nudge it back into place and let it rest.

Tomorrow I will decide again whether it earns its spot.

That decision, more than the object itself, is what makes it part of my carry.