Happiness is wrenches. A ton of wrenches. When life gets you down and you’re in a dark place, you need wrenches. Ten, twenty, thirty pounds of wrenches.

What really drives me on is when the wrenches are unlabeled, of varying sizes, and fill several drawers of my toolbox like a twisted mass of metal. None of the wrenches should or do follow form factors, so every wrench organizer is mostly unfilled. What’s more, when a wrench breaks due to wrenching, it’s impossible to get a wrench of the same size as the ones before, splitting the collected tangle of indiscriminate wrenches into an incomprehensible mess.

This is what I live for. Wrenches, and the absolute impossibility of keeping them organized, drive me on through troubles and struggles. The fact that each manufacturer puts the size someplace different, so I can’t ascertain the correct wrench without pawing through the drawer like a dog burying a bone in carpet, is the core of my soul.

In totally unrelated news, I’m rage-ficcing.