When should one consider to exercise one’s option to prod along through life wearing nothing but balls of steel? Driving a car, making love to that special woman, or holding a bountiful dose of liquor, all those require, or should, that a person remembers to carry them out properly clad in steel attire, crotchwise. Being a father must be done with iron cojones, pretty much the same way as choosing a mother for your child, which ought never to be done just because you’re alone or afraid. But later in life, going through the pain of separation, if or when one gets a chance of picking between doing what seems the greater, rightful thing and just doing what the fuck is best according to one’s own heart (leaving the brain to ponder about serious shit like red wine and religion, or the missing link between both) maybe one should opt out and waive the chance of roaming the land feeling, once more, invulnerable, crotchwise. And instead of sacrificing oneself for the supposedly noble outcome and for the virtue of hope, maybe, just maybe, one should hawk like a sailor, smell the fresh, though untimely, spring air in October, and shit from above on all that matters, crotchwise or across one’s ribcage, and for a single moment, just that once, believe like everyone ought to believe, that steel balls are great to have when small matters are concerned, but that when the bigger beasts come lurking on your doorstep, as they always find a way of doing that at precisely the least expected moment and along the path of most severe consequences, well, in those moments, the best thing to have done would be, for sure, to let the world of small people fuck itself and on their head be it.