Sometimes I feel like I'm a little kid who found a knife (as my two-year old mysteriously did a couple days ago), and I knew as soon as I found it with its wooden handle and shiny blade that I was not supposed to have this knife. But it was pretty, and I was sure I was old enough to manage it just fine on my own. So I started cutting at a stick with it and watching the bark shave away in satisfying, if clumsy, manner. Until the knife slips (it's not that sharp), and I cut myself.