Diary of the Proletariat, Day 7.
-Oh god, it's morning again. 4:30 alarms are brutal. I will fiercely hate the world until I down a Pepsi five minutes before the shift starts.

- Very few things in a factory fail to produce some ungodly mess. For example, sand-blasting leaks sand all over the gorram place, and that's one of the cleaner operations. Today I was on the drill press, and let me tell you, when you drill 2,464 holes (616 pieces, 4 holes each) through brass hinge-dealies, you get a metric fuckton of brass shavings... possibly just an actual metric ton. I kept finding bits of brass in my hair. Other than that, running a drill press pretty much just involves putting things in and hitting buttons, so it's not a bad deal.

- Speaking of drills, a drill ate one of my gloves. It was a little alarming. Hooray for tear-away rubber gloves. The real bitch was peeling the thing off (rubber gloves, while required for safety, catch on everything).

- When I'm caffeinated enough, I apparently start trying to write bluegrass songs. I'll see where that goes. I'm seeing songwriting as the best shot I have at mental productivity here, especially as no one else will actually hear me if I try to sing my way through it. I myself should probably wear earplugs if they put me on the drill again. Not much in a factory is quiet either.

-And a thought from my drive home: "Hey! that police car just made a left turn without signalling! That bastard!"