Knifey Wifey

“This is some wifey shit.”

I’m hanging out with some guy, and we got on the topic of knives, and of course yours truly took that opportunity to lay out a small display of knives that happened to be in my possession at the time, including two switchblades and a butterfly knife. He had been talking about how he wanted to get a switchblade, at which point I hipped him to the various booths at various flea markets throughout the Bay Area where you can cheaply buy a knife of pretty crappy but still very functional caliber for merely $15.

“Yeah, well, I always carry a knife on me, but mostly I just use them for doing key bumps in the bathroom.”

“Man. That’s how I know you’re a real one. So you’re just the chick busting out a switchblade when everyone else is trying to key bumps?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s like a cocaine trust fall: here, let me hold this sharp object up to your nose while you snort drugs off it and I don’t slice your face open. Not everyone can hang.”

I think that he loves me as he gingerly sets the knives back down.

“I respect the knives. You know what they say: guns are business, knives are personal.”

“I’m very personal. But, also, sometimes I’m business, which is why I own guns, too.”

He smiles at me, pulls me in and kisses me. That’s the appropriate reaction to finding out that the girl you’re spending your Thursday night with is a violent maniac and the bedroom where you’re standing isn’t actually a bedroom, it is, in fact, an arsenal. Me? I just think it’s funny that he thinks my assortment of guns and knives qualifies me as wifey material, mostly because these weapons were accumulated over a period of time when my paranoia was peaking due to having engaged in one too many slutty activities. I’m a thot in wifey clothing, but that’s okay. He’ll figure it out soon enough, and when he does, there won’t be anything he can do about because – guess what! I’ll be the one with the knife and/or gun in my hand, and I’ll be laughing all the way back to the bar to find a fresh piece of meat for tomorrow night. I know that my ability to protect myself might make me look like a strong independent woman, which to some men might translate into “wifey material” but, come on, let’s be honest: if you’re impressed by my guns and my knives, you probably ain’t husband material, so get back in line with the rest of the fuck boys where you belong. Just because gay marriage is legal doesn’t mean I changed my mind and now condone marriage. Nah, fuck that shit. Abolish all marriage. Still.