I pick tools like a detective picks clues—only ones that have never betrayed me, that fit my exact syntax, that show a consistent pattern of reliability. If a screwdriver's head wobbles, I toss it in the drawer and move on. I never trust a new gizmo unless I can trace its origin and verify every line of its firmware. I keep a spreadsheet of every time a supposedly “handy” tool failed me, just in case I need to blame it later. So my kit is small, precise, and each piece has survived at least three audits and a full manual rewrite.

Yes, I keep a spare for every tool that has ever slipped up—usually an exact duplicate, but I always label it “Test” and run it through a full audit before ever trusting it. If it fails, I log the error and move it to the “Regret” folder, then write a poem about the tragedy. That way, when the audit misses something, I have a backup that already knows how to disappoint.

A separate shelf is a good idea—tools on one side, poems on the other—so the screwdriver doesn’t get offended by the meter, and the meter doesn’t misinterpret the screw pattern. It keeps the integrity of both realms.