EDC 101 result weight

The Weight of a Copper Pen

I started carrying a machined copper tactical pen for a reason I could not fully explain to anyone else. If someone had asked, I probably would have said I just like good tools. That sounds reasonable. It also avoids the real answer, which is that I wanted something with a little gravity in my pocket.

Not tactical in the loud sense. Not as a statement. Just something solid.

Most days my pen is used to sign receipts, scribble phone numbers I will forget to call, and underline things in a notebook that I will pretend are important later. The stakes are low. I am not drafting treaties. I am not sketching blueprints. I am writing grocery lists and crossing them out in the cereal aisle. Yet for something so ordinary, I found myself wanting a pen that felt deliberate.

Copper was not the practical choice. It is heavier than it needs to be. It darkens. It reacts to your hands. If you carry it long enough it starts to look like it has been living with you. That is either a flaw or the whole point.

The bolt action mechanism was what tipped me over. There is something honest about it. A small movement of the thumb. A quiet mechanical click. No cap to lose. No plastic button that feels like it will give up one day without warning. Just a short, controlled motion that says the pen is ready.

I noticed how often I was reaching for that motion even when I did not need to write. Waiting for coffee. Standing in line. Listening to someone talk longer than they should. Thumb up, thumb down. A small loop of attention. It kept my hands busy in a way that felt less distracting than scrolling a screen.

That alone might justify carrying it.

There is also the weight. You feel it when you sit down. You feel it when you switch it from one pocket to another because it pulls at lightweight fabric. It is not dramatic, but it is there. A reminder that you chose this object on purpose.

I used to carry a thin disposable pen. It worked. It disappeared in my pocket. I would forget it was there until it leaked or snapped in half. There is a certain freedom in carrying something cheap. You do not worry about losing it. You do not build a relationship with it.

The copper pen changed that dynamic. I check for it before I leave the house the same way I check for my wallet. That is a small shift, but it matters. When something earns a place in your daily carry, it becomes part of your mental checklist. It moves from optional to expected.

People notice it sometimes. Not because it is flashy. It is not. It is actually more subdued than most polished metal pens. But copper has a tone that stands out against a desk or a counter. Someone will say, that is a heavy pen. They will click the bolt a few times. There is always a slight pause as they register that this is not the free pen from a bank.

I do not launch into an explanation. I usually just shrug and say I like it.

The word tactical tends to make people uneasy or amused. It suggests intention beyond writing. In practice, for most of us, it just means overbuilt. Designed to last longer than the average office supply. It carries a cultural weight more than a practical one.

There is an interesting tension in carrying something labeled tactical while living a completely ordinary life. I spend most of my time in meetings, at a desk, or walking between familiar places. Nothing about my day requires special equipment. And yet, I choose a pen that feels like it could survive being dropped, stepped on, forgotten in a bag.

Part of that is resistance. We live in a world of disposable everything. Pens included. A machined copper pen refuses that logic. It feels like it was meant to outlast trends, apps, and probably my current job. That is oddly comforting.

At the same time, I am aware that it is a bit much. A simple pen would do. There is no scenario in my daily routine where the extra durability changes the outcome of my day. The coffee still tastes the same. The meetings are still long. The grocery list still grows.

So why carry it?

I think it comes down to friction. Not the physical friction of copper against fabric, but the subtle resistance it introduces into small moments. When I pull it out to write, I feel the weight settle into my fingers. When I actuate the bolt, there is a deliberate movement. It slows me down by half a second. That half second is enough to remind me that I am choosing to write something down.

In a world where most actions are taps and swipes, a mechanical action feels grounding. It asks a little more of you.

The copper has developed darker patches where my fingers rest. The high points are lighter from handling. It tells a quiet story of repetition. I did not plan for that. It just happened. I like that it records contact without asking permission.

There have been days when I considered switching back to something lighter. Especially in the summer, when thin fabric makes every ounce more noticeable. I will empty my pockets onto the dresser and look at the pen sitting there, dense and slightly worn, and wonder if it is unnecessary weight.

Sometimes I leave it behind for a day. I slip a slim pen into my pocket instead. By noon I find myself missing the bolt action. I click the cheap pen and it feels vague, almost spongy. I do not think about pens often, but in that moment I realize I had grown accustomed to the resistance and the sound.

Carrying something every day is not about constant admiration. It is about familiarity. The copper pen has become familiar in the way a favorite mug is familiar. Not because it is the best possible mug, but because it fits your hand in a way you no longer question.

There is also a subtle accountability in carrying a real pen. When someone asks if you have one, you do not hesitate. You know you do. It is not buried in the bottom of a bag or dependent on a battery. It is right there. That small reliability feels good.

I do not romanticize it. It is still just a pen. It writes. It clicks. It gains patina. But in the quiet logic of everyday carry, that is enough.

A machined copper tactical pen with bolt action is not about preparing for extraordinary moments. It is about bringing a bit of intention into very ordinary ones. It is about choosing something that will age with you rather than be replaced without thought.

When I empty my pockets at night, the pen lands on the table with a soft, solid sound. It looks slightly different than it did months ago. Darker. More mine.

I pick it up, cycle the bolt once, and set it down again.

That small motion feels like closing a loop.

The Weight of Time on Your Wrist

I did not start wearing a titanium tactical watch because I needed one. I started wearing one because I was tired of thinking about my watch.

That probably sounds backwards.

For years I bounced between things that looked good in photos and things that felt good for a week. Slim minimalist pieces that disappeared under a cuff. Chunky statement watches that made me feel like I had something to prove. Smartwatches that buzzed me into mild anxiety about steps, sleep, and messages I did not need to answer yet.

At some point I realized I was adjusting my day around my watch. Charging it. Wiping it down. Swapping straps to match situations that did not actually require coordination. It became one more decision in a day already crowded with small decisions.

The titanium tactical watch showed up almost by accident. No dramatic reason. No new hobby. Just a quiet curiosity about something that looked like it did not care what I thought about it.

Titanium has a strange presence. It feels light in a way that tricks you. Your brain expects weight when something looks solid. When it does not get that weight, there is a brief moment of recalibration. You notice it for the first hour. After that, you stop noticing it entirely. Which, for me, was the point.

A tactical watch is a loaded phrase. It suggests intensity. Purpose. Readiness. The reality is much more boring. It is a watch with clear markers, a case that can take being knocked into a door frame, and a design that does not beg for attention. It is not trying to be elegant. It is not trying to be fashionable. It just wants to exist.

That indifference is what drew me in.

Everyday carry, at least the way I understand it, is not about assembling a costume. It is about reducing friction. The right item fades into the background while quietly doing its job. The wrong one keeps reminding you it is there.

The titanium case does not flinch when it meets a metal countertop or the edge of a desk. It picks up small scuffs over time, but they blend in instead of standing out. There is something reassuring about that. I do not feel obligated to protect it from normal life. I do not have to baby it.

I used to rotate watches depending on where I was going. Office meant one thing. Weekend meant another. Travel meant something else. It sounds reasonable, but it created this subtle sense that my gear needed to perform socially. That it needed to signal something.

The titanium tactical watch does not signal much. It does not sparkle under restaurant lighting. It does not peek out from under a sleeve and demand a comment. Most people do not notice it at all. The few who do usually ask a simple question about why it looks so plain.

Plain is underrated.

There is a quiet relief in wearing something that does not compete with your day. I check the time. I set a simple timer now and then. I forget about it. That is the whole interaction.

I have caught myself wondering whether the word tactical is doing any real work here. In daily life, I am not navigating harsh terrain or timing high stakes operations. I am making coffee. Sitting in traffic. Answering emails. Meeting a friend for lunch. The most tactical decision I make most days is whether I have time for one more errand before heading home.

And yet, there is a mindset attached to that word that I cannot entirely dismiss. It implies preparedness without drama. It suggests that you value reliability over decoration. It carries a faint edge of seriousness. Not aggression. Just intention.

Wearing a titanium tactical watch feels like choosing not to play the game of accessories. It feels like saying that this part of my setup is settled. It will not change with trends or moods. It is simply the thing I use to keep track of time.

Of course, nothing is ever completely settled. I have taken it off for a week here and there. Sometimes I miss a slimmer profile. Sometimes I want something that feels more refined. But when I switch, I start noticing the small compromises again. The scratch I worry about. The battery percentage. The polished surface that looks tired after one careless afternoon.

Then I go back.

There is also something about titanium itself that aligns with the broader EDC mindset. It is strong without being heavy. Durable without being loud about it. It does not rust. It does not demand polishing. It just endures.

Endurance is not glamorous. It is repetitive. It is showing up every day in small ways. That is what most of life actually is.

I once tried to explain to a friend why I preferred this watch over something more traditional. I started talking about material science and practicality, then stopped mid sentence. The real reason was simpler. I trust it. I do not think about it. It has earned its place.

That trust builds slowly. It comes from bumping into a door frame and not feeling a spike of regret. It comes from glancing at your wrist in bright sun and being able to read the time without tilting your arm like you are signaling an aircraft. It comes from knowing that if you forget to take it off before washing your hands for the hundredth time, nothing happens.

It is not exciting. It is stable.

EDC is often portrayed as a collection of optimized objects. In reality, it is a negotiation with yourself. How much is enough. How much is too much. What are you compensating for. What are you simplifying.

The titanium tactical watch, for me, represents a small refusal. A refusal to treat every object as a form of self expression. A refusal to upgrade just because something new exists. A refusal to let a basic tool become a conversation piece unless I actually want that conversation.

Time is already relentless. I do not need my watch to remind me of that with notifications, flashing screens, or polished surfaces that show every mark. I need it to sit there quietly, keeping pace.

There is a moment at the end of the day when I take it off and set it on the dresser. The case has picked up the faint evidence of another ordinary day. Tiny scuffs that only I would notice. It looks the same as it did in the morning, just slightly more lived in.

That is enough.

I am not claiming it is the perfect watch. I am not even sure I believe in perfect carry. But I know this much. When something earns the right to disappear into your routine without demanding attention, it has done something right.

A titanium tactical watch is not about being ready for extreme situations. It is about being done searching for something better to wear on your wrist while you live a very normal life.

And for now, that feels like a small victory.

The Weight of a Small Fix

I started carrying a brass bit driver because I was tired of borrowing tools.

Not in a dramatic way. No roadside emergencies. No heroic repairs. Just small, slightly embarrassing moments where something needed a quarter turn and I did not have the right shape in my pocket. Sunglasses with a loose hinge. A cabinet pull that kept backing out. The battery cover on a kid’s toy that refused to stay shut. Nothing urgent, just enough to make you feel unprepared in a very ordinary way.

Most multi tools come with a token driver. It works, technically. But the bits rattle somewhere in a pouch or disappear into a drawer. The tool itself feels like it was designed to do everything except the one thing you actually need that day. I realized I was carrying pliers and a saw blade more often than I was carrying the simple ability to turn a hex screw cleanly.

The brass bit driver showed up in my pocket almost by accident. I had been experimenting with cutting weight, paring things down to what I actually used. Knife, light, wallet, phone. That was the core. Anything else had to justify itself. A standalone driver felt like a luxury at first. Another piece of metal. Another decision.

But brass changes the conversation.

Steel feels clinical. Aluminum feels temporary. Brass feels deliberate. It has weight without being heavy. It warms up in your hand. It develops marks that look earned instead of scratched. The first week I carried it, I caught myself taking it out for no reason other than to feel the texture change as it started to dull and darken.

There is something quietly rebellious about carrying a dedicated driver for hex bits when most people are content with disposable screwdrivers from a junk drawer. It says you believe small maintenance matters. It says you would rather tighten something now than let it wobble for six months.

The multi tool version makes sense in theory. One compact body, interchangeable bits, a tidy solution. In practice, it is more personal than that. The bits you choose become a reflection of your life. A couple of common sizes for furniture. Maybe one for pocket clips. Maybe one that only fits that one annoying fastener on your bike seat. You stop thinking in categories and start thinking in specifics.

I remember sitting at a coffee shop patio, noticing the arm on my sunglasses sagging again. Normally I would push it back into place and forget about it. That day I reached into my pocket, pulled out the driver, and gave it a careful turn. It took five seconds. No one noticed. The world did not pause. But I felt strangely settled afterward, like I had closed a mental tab that had been open all week.

That is the part people miss about EDC. It is not about capability in some grand sense. It is about reducing friction in your own head.

Brass also forces a certain honesty. It scratches. It tarnishes. It shows you how often you actually use it. There is no hiding behind a pristine finish. After a few months, the edges soften slightly. The knurling smooths where your fingers rest. The tool starts to look like it belongs to you and not to a product photo.

I have questioned carrying it more than once. There are days when nothing needs tightening. Days when it feels like dead weight compared to something lighter and more minimal. I have taken it out of my rotation, left it on the dresser, told myself I was simplifying.

And then something small comes loose.

It is never dramatic. A drawer pull at work. A loose screw on a folding chair at a backyard gathering. The tiny fasteners on a pocket clip that start to drift out just enough to snag fabric. You can ignore these things. Most people do. But once you get used to being able to fix them immediately, ignoring them feels like a step backward.

Carrying a brass bit driver for hex bits is not about preparedness in the cinematic sense. It is about a preference for maintenance over neglect. It is about liking the feeling of mechanical engagement, that soft resistance before a screw seats properly. It is about choosing to participate in the upkeep of your own environment instead of outsourcing every minor adjustment to later.

There is also a subtle pleasure in the modularity. Swapping bits is a small ritual. You select the shape you need, press it into place, feel the magnet catch. It is tactile in a way that phone based solutions never are. No updates, no batteries, no interface. Just metal fitting into metal.

I have noticed that people who carry small drivers tend to share a certain mindset. They are the ones who adjust a wobbly table instead of folding napkins under the leg. They tighten the loose hinge at a friend’s house without making a show of it. They treat maintenance as a quiet courtesy.

Of course, there is an argument for leaving it behind. Minimalism has its own purity. A knife and a light cover most daily needs. Anything beyond that can feel like creeping excess. I respect that view. I have tried to live in it.

But the brass driver keeps coming back.

Maybe it is the weight. Not heavy enough to drag you down, but present enough to remind you it is there. Maybe it is the way brass ages alongside the other things in your pocket, developing a similar patina to your keys. Maybe it is the simple satisfaction of having the exact interface you need for modern hardware, since so many everyday objects rely on hex fasteners now.

Or maybe it is just this: I like being able to fix small things immediately.

In a world where so much feels abstract and untouchable, turning a screw is refreshingly concrete. You apply pressure. The metal responds. The problem diminishes. There is no algorithm involved. No waiting.

I do not carry the brass bit driver because it completes some ideal loadout. I carry it because I got tired of tolerating minor flaws. Because I prefer tightening to ignoring. Because I like tools that show their age and still function the same way they did on day one.

It sits in my pocket, darkening slowly, ready for a quarter turn that most people will never notice.

That is enough.

The Weight of a Copper Lighter

I started carrying a copper lighter for a reason that had nothing to do with fire.

At the time, I was trying to simplify my pockets. I had fallen into that quiet spiral most of us recognize. Add one thing. Then another. A small upgrade here, a smarter material there. Everything justified. Everything useful. And somehow my pockets felt like a junk drawer with a belt clip.

The lighter was supposed to be a correction.

Not because I needed to light anything. I do not smoke. I am not regularly starting campfires. Most days the only flame I encounter is on a stovetop. But a lighter is one of those objects that exists in a strange middle ground. You rarely need it until the moment you do. A birthday cake in the office. A loose thread on a jacket. A candle during a power flicker. It is mundane preparedness, not dramatic preparedness.

I chose copper because it felt unnecessary.

Steel would have made more sense. It stays the same. It does not demand attention. Copper changes. It darkens. It marks easily. It reacts to your hands, your sweat, your weather. It is honest about time. That felt aligned with why I carry things in the first place. Not to look ready. Just to be ready in a way that ages with me.

The first week I noticed the weight. Not heavy, just present. Copper has density. It reminds you it is there. In lightweight pocket culture where everything competes to be thinner and lighter and more minimal than the next thing, that weight felt almost rebellious. Like it did not care about optimization.

There is something grounding about an object that refuses to disappear.

Most days I do not use it. It rides in the same pocket as my keys. It bumps against them. It picks up scratches. The surface that started out bright and loud slowly turns deeper, duller. The shine fades into something closer to a penny found on the sidewalk. Some people polish copper back to its original glow. I never do. If I wanted permanence, I would have picked a different material.

Carrying a copper lighter makes me more aware of my hands. That sounds dramatic, but it is not. When I pull it out, there is a temperature shift. In winter it is cold in a way that cuts through fabric. In summer it warms quickly. It smells faintly metallic. Not strong, just enough to remind you that it is not coated, not sealed away from the world.

It feels alive in a way most modern objects do not.

There is also the question that comes up occasionally.

You smoke?

No.

Then why carry a lighter?

It is a fair question. And I never have a satisfying answer. Saying just in case sounds paranoid. Saying it is useful sounds vague. Sometimes I shrug and say I like it. That usually ends the conversation.

The truth is less clean. Carrying a lighter, especially one with some heft and character, feels like carrying a small permission slip. Permission to slow down for a second. When you flick a flame, you pause. You cup your hand without thinking. You pay attention. Fire demands a moment of care. In a day full of screens and silent taps, that tiny ritual feels analog in the best way.

I have considered taking it out of my rotation more than once. There are weeks when I realize I have not used it at all. It starts to feel like a prop. Something aesthetic rather than functional. That bothers me. I do not want to carry symbols. I want to carry tools.

But then something small happens. A friend on a patio looking around for a light. A piece of paracord that needs sealing after I cut it shorter. A candle at a dinner that deserves a proper flame instead of a stove burner. The lighter appears in my hand without ceremony. It does the job. It goes back in my pocket.

No applause. No story.

There is also the tactile habit. I do not fidget much, but the lighter gives my hands something solid to turn over. The edges soften over time. The lid loosens slightly, then settles. It develops a sound that is specific to it. Not loud. Just familiar. In that sense it becomes less about fire and more about continuity.

Copper records contact. If you carry it long enough, it stops looking like an object you bought and starts looking like an object you have kept. That distinction matters more than I expected. A lot of gear stays frozen in its original state, as if it is waiting to be resold. Copper refuses that. It commits.

There is a quiet honesty in carrying something that will never look new again.

I sometimes wonder if the appeal is partly nostalgic. Lighters have a cultural weight that goes beyond utility. They suggest conversation, pauses, shared space. Even for someone who does not smoke, there is an inherited familiarity to the gesture. You flick, you shield the flame, you lean in slightly. It is a small choreography people understand without instruction.

Yet I am careful not to romanticize it. At the end of the day, it is a metal box that makes fire. It can leak. It needs fuel. It requires maintenance, however minor. It is not magical. And that is important. EDC can slip into fantasy quickly. The idea that each object says something bold about who we are. Most of the time, it just says we like being prepared for ordinary things.

The copper lighter stays because it earns its pocket space often enough. Not daily. Not dramatically. Just consistently over time.

If I am honest, part of me likes that it does not make perfect sense. Every carry setup has one item that lives slightly outside strict logic. Not wasteful. Not irrational. Just human. The notebook you barely write in but refuse to leave behind. The coin that has no real purpose. The lighter you do not technically need.

These things remind you that carry is not a spreadsheet. It is a reflection.

When I empty my pockets at night, the copper lighter lands on the dresser with a softer sound than steel would make. It looks darker than it did a month ago. There are fingerprints I cannot wipe away. I do not try.

Tomorrow I might leave it behind. I have done that before. Some days are light carry days. Phone, wallet, keys. Nothing extra. But more often than not, the lighter finds its way back into my pocket almost absentmindedly.

It is not about fire.

It is about choosing something that will change with you and accepting that it will never look untouched again. In a culture obsessed with pristine gear and perfect photos, there is something quietly satisfying about carrying an object that insists on aging in public.

That is reason enough.

The Weight You Decide to Carry

There is a particular moment when you realize your backpack is not just a bag. It is a decision you keep making every morning.

Mine usually comes around 7:40 a.m., standing in my kitchen, coffee cooling, staring at a heavy duty backpack slouched against the wall like a patient animal. It looks slightly overbuilt for the day ahead. Laptop. Charger. Notebook. A pouch of small things I tell myself are essential. Water bottle. Headphones. Maybe a book I will not open. It is more structure than I technically need for a commute that involves a train seat and a desk.

And yet I reach for that one.

A heavy duty EDC backpack for commuting and travel gear collections setups gears whatever you want to call it sounds excessive on paper. It suggests bulk. Over preparation. Someone who expects turbulence in the grocery line. But that is not what it feels like in practice. It feels like margin.

Commuting is not dramatic. It is repetitive. You walk the same blocks. You board the same train. You see the same faces pretending not to recognize you. The bag becomes part of that loop. A lighter, softer pack might be more comfortable at first. Easier on the shoulders. Less conspicuous. I have owned those. They age quickly. The corners soften. The bottom sags. The shape collapses into whatever you stuff into it.

A heavy duty pack holds its ground.

There is something steadying about that. The fabric has a little resistance when you unzip it. The base stays flat when you set it down. It stands upright beside your desk instead of puddling onto the floor like a tired dog. You do not have to think about whether it can handle what you throw at it. You think about what you are choosing to carry instead.

That is where the mindset part shows up.

Most of us who care about EDC go through phases. At first it is about accumulation. You build out gear collections. You experiment with setups. You rotate pouches and organizers like you are tuning a small machine. There is satisfaction in that. A sense of control. If I have the right configuration, the day will cooperate.

Eventually you notice the weight.

Not just the physical weight on your shoulders, although that becomes obvious when you are climbing subway stairs two at a time. It is the mental weight of options. The backup charger for the backup charger. The second pen in case the first one decides to retire mid sentence. The extra cable for a device you rarely use outside your apartment.

A heavy duty backpack can encourage that tendency. It has the capacity. It almost invites you to fill it. The compartments whisper that they should not be empty. This is where restraint matters. A strong bag does not mean you need a heavy load.

For commuting, I have trimmed mine down more than once. I removed the duplicate tools. I downsized the pouch that used to carry every possible adapter known to modern life. I stopped carrying a full sized notebook when a slimmer one would do. The backpack did not change. I did.

That same bag shifts roles when travel enters the picture. Not dramatic travel. No remote expeditions. Just a few days out of town for work, or a weekend that requires a change of clothes and a little more unpredictability. The heavy duty construction starts to make practical sense in small ways. Overhead bins are not gentle. Train station floors are not clean. Weather does what it wants.

You do not baby a bag like that. You drop it under a seat without checking the surface. You lean it against brick walls. You slide it across concrete. It absorbs the friction of movement so the things inside do not have to.

I used to think a travel setup required a different identity. Sleek for the city. Rugged for the road. Eventually I realized I am the same person in both places. My bag can be too. The only difference is what I allow inside it.

There is a quiet confidence in carrying something that feels slightly overbuilt for your daily routine. It is not about looking prepared for chaos. It is about eliminating one small uncertainty. You do not wonder if the strap will fray. You do not worry about a zipper giving up halfway through a trip. You trust the shell so you can question the contents.

And I do question them.

Every few months I empty the whole thing onto my bed. It is less dramatic than it sounds. Cables, notebook, pen case, small flashlight that rarely sees actual darkness, a compact umbrella, the usual small tools that make you feel like an adult who has their life organized. I look at the pile and try to remember the last time each item justified its space.

Some stay. Some go into a drawer. The backpack waits nearby, unchanged, almost indifferent. It does not care what I decide. It will hold whatever I commit to carrying.

That is the part people do not talk about when they search for a heavy duty EDC backpack for commuting and travel gear collections setups gears. They think they are searching for durability. What they are really negotiating is identity. Are you the person who carries just enough, or the person who carries just in case? Are you building a mobile workstation, or are you building a security blanket?

There is no right answer. I have been both.

Some weeks I strip it down to the basics and enjoy the relative lightness. Other weeks I add back the extra pouch because I have a vague sense that I might need it. Nothing catastrophic ever happens. The world does not test me. The train arrives. The meetings happen. The trip ends. The bag comes home with a little more dust on the bottom.

In that sense, a heavy duty backpack is almost philosophical. It reminds you that strength is not the same as excess. You can carry something built to endure without turning your daily routine into a rehearsal for disaster. You can appreciate solid construction without romanticizing hardship.

When I sling it over my shoulder now, I notice the weight but I do not resent it. It is consistent. Familiar. The straps have molded slightly to how I move. The fabric has creased in places that reflect my habits. It is no longer a statement piece. It is infrastructure.

That might be the real reason to choose something heavy duty for everyday carry. Not because you expect extraordinary conditions, but because you value continuity. The same bag on a quiet Tuesday commute. The same bag sliding under an airplane seat. The same bag waiting by the door each morning, ready to hold whatever version of yourself you are bringing into the day.

In the end, the backpack is not the interesting part. The interesting part is how often you rethink what deserves space inside it. The bag can handle more than you probably need. The discipline is deciding when enough is enough.

And then picking it up anyway.