You couldn't hurt me, even if I wanted you to. Dammit. Now, watch one of my adult kids snuff me to give my wish, because, like the sword from the stone, few are called.
Even then, I fear I am a protected species. Dammit. And it has nothing to do with weapons.
You are the weapon. You just use tools.
Hey, woman. Yeah, you slight thing over there, with the skinny arms, bony hips, quivering because life has been pissing down your leg since you were in 1st grade. And you, fatty. Yeah, you, over there, hating yourself, feeling inadequate, like you deserve any abuse you get. Come over here.
Move it, losers. And listen up.
Here, I have a stiff baguette, days old, stale, wrapped in flank steak, covered in several flour tortillas, string around them like a roulade.
Now, I want you to, with one hand strike of your choice, whatever one you're comfortable with, to smash it. Just snap it in half. Or crush it.
Congratulations, you just broke an average man's arm.
You can snap a collarbone with 7 pounds of pressure. Lungs are about a half an inch behind the ribs. A nail file, worked through the cartilage (kinda like separating chicken bones) and into his or her breath bags, will make them leave you alone. Likely forever.
I could go on all day about all of the places where human bodies will be damaged with very little effort, but you need to take care of yourself, yourself.
Get to it.