Pull down on the drill press. A 3/8 bit screws itself through the half inch thick metal. It might be steel, might be something else. I still don't know shit about metalwork, and I only halfheartedly try to learn.
It pushes through, the sweet end to about 30 seconds of work when you feel that last sliver give way and the drill lurches through. I let it go back up and turn the metal pipe over, aiming the drill at the other black marked pilot hole... and begin all over again.
After seven hours of this, you begin going a bit nuts. My only reprieve is that there is some great rap out at the moment, and Hot 97 has been saving me from the monotony that has become the classic rock station. The radio becomes your only salvation, your only contact with the world. Sure, the guys at the shop are cool as fuck... but you talk to them maybe once every couple hours. The other hours are filled with watching little wires of metal dance up the drill bit, and eventually whip off and try to lash you, flailing like a drunken boxer in their vain attempt to break your skin.
It is one thing when a job is kind of dangerous. It's another when it's boring and your whole family thinks you have ADD because you can't sit in one spot and do anything for shit. What that means is that by hole #422, I'm thinking about weightlifting or fucking or movies or anything to keep my mind off the task at hand. Which, I believe, is when you lose a hand.
What a conundrum. The sooner this job is over, the happier I'll be...although is does seem like it will likely be back out to one stone yard or another for me. I guess I was right about when I used to say about what happens when you bring us outside dogs in... we piss all over the carpet and you throw us back out.
And we bitch and moan a lot. Or at least I do. But if I didn't do that, you motherfuckers wouldn't have anything to read, so fuck yourselves if you're shaking your heads in agreement.