Cussing and building. Planning and drilling.

I don't always impress myself. Cussing and a near-breakdown are a possibility around every corner. It's genetics - you should check out my dad - but I have to live with myself, so I have to take responsibility. I'm trying to implement changes and stay productive. I'm trying to make goals and reach them. Realistically, all I can do is go slowly and try not to kick a hole in the wall.

I watched a seven-minute YouTube video about how to make a workbench. I went out to Kennett and started to cut up all of the fucked up old wood that's laying around in my folks's garage. There's wood from a futon that I pulled out of the trash and cut up. There's wood from when I built an apartment in the back of that U-Haul truck. I glued and screwed together a little workbench for my bedroom.

Shelves. We desperately need shelves for the bedroom. (Didn't I live in a van once? Where did all this stuff come from?) I got some long pieces of futon oak, and those decided the height. The width was decided based on what I could get five or six even shelves from without paying money: three feet.

I dragged my new workbench into the center of the garage, and it worked fantastically well as something to put saws and clamps on. I chopped out some plywood shelves, added some reinforcement to the undersides, and thanked Christ that it all fit in my van.

If I ever go to IKEA again, it will be to eat weird food, drink bland coffee and read a book while it rains outside. I'll shit in their bathroom, and I won't wave goodbye. The word "IKEA" being used in the house a few times was sufficient motivation to crank on a drill and read the instructions for installing a blade on my dad's circular saw.