I dreamed for hours in the wee morning about buying a knife, one with a sheath. When it came down to it, I figured that was too much knife for me.
Why on earth would I be preoccupied with a knife today?
Last night on the phone, Lizzie began to tell me about a Stephen King movie they'd just watched, a typically scary one involving campers. With great emphasis, I had her stop before she could start. One doesn't want to hear scary campfire tales before embarking on a camping trip.
Hence, the knife dreams followed and they were also aided by the
I have painter buddies who refuse to paint on their own at all, or they have spouses who insist they not paint on their own. I always thought they were the wussy ones.
Will I feel more safe with a knife? Nooo. Will I change my behavior because of a knife? Nooo. Should I be charging Stephen King for it? By all means.