"My parents' generation hoarded mason jars. I'm told my grandmother had a spice rack bigger than a footlocker. But wizards my age? We hoard knives, pens, and lighters. An American educated witch with something to write with, cut with, and set things on fire with can improvise a hefty percentage of her magical repertoire. And hey, It's not as if we fly commercial if we can possibly avoid it."
Quiet professionalism, huh?
All the cutely-violent, "Wahrreeorr" spartan/viking/cowboy/punisher tiny percentage of REAL fighter hard-dick tough guy bullshit spouting about all the spooky tough stuff you're going to do is all well and good. Harmless enough, even, if you don't think you're ever going to be physically violent with someone else in your lifetime.
That is, until the worst happens and you're the one left standing with blood on the walls. Then a great many people grow an opinion about how defensive your self-defense really was.
It's an aspect of the world I don't particularly like. Personally, I think it's a spiritual cousin of slut-shaming. But the fact remains that our society jealously guards its approval of who gets to be violent and how.
I'll admit, I laugh at a lot of the jokes. Seen the elephant enough to get the gallows humor. But I don't cheer them on and I don't wear the t-shirts.
Gods forbid, the worst happens to me, I'm gonna have enough of a bad time with my size lummox suits and resting war face. I don't need some prosecutor having more weight to his argument that I spend my weekends eating souls.
Musings on violence, storytelling, and humanity in general.