This was the kind of story that might have been better as a poem. The central conceit wore thin so quickly that it became awkward and not in the (what I assume) was the post-(insert ology/ism) pro/anti-tautology tongue-in-cheek/tool-in-boxes manner it was intended, of course, that awkwardness, might have been the point.
Kind of disappointed that the toolbox seemed to value herself by how well she accommodated tools better than other toolboxes.
Perhaps it's just because it seemed sophomoric.