Out of all my memories the most memorable and somewhat traumatic is when I drilled my leg. This may sound slightly odd but if you read it, it will definitely clear at least three questions you might have had from reading the title. Let me clear one thing up, yes it sounds interesting but it was excruciatingly painful and I was in complete agony and shock as the drill nearly bore a hole through my bone. Talking about this is actually pretty fun and it’s become funny to freak them out. I guess it has become somewhat of a therapy to block out any traumatic thoughts having to do with sharp objects.

Around four years ago, or later, I was participating in the Boy Scouts. Quite honestly this was one of the worst times in my life. Regardless of that, my troop had been entered into a wooden boxcar derby, which unfortunately I was the only from my troop to show up for. Before the race actually began there was the preparation, mind numbingly boring preparation. But spontaneously that boredom flew away as I glanced upon my dad’s drill. The reckless voice in my head was uttering,” that would be so awesome to play with.” My conscience must have been asleep at the time.

After a long time of watching my dad basically build our boxcar, the thing was finished and my mind wandered back to the drill. Then after ten minutes of more pointless boredom, I ask my dad if I could play with the drill. Now when a child asks for that their parents should deny them but maybe my dad was a little too trusting of me. For most of my drilling time nothing happened except for a piece of plywood resembling Swiss cheese. Then my brain shut off for the night and I decided, instead of bending down to drill, why not bring onto my lap. I hope you can guess where this is going.

Before I realized what had happened, the drill was stuck in my leg and I was staring at it for a good ten seconds before I screamed yelled and tried to run away from the pain. There was no running, or rather crawling, from this drill that ominously stuck up out of my pants and leg. So I sat, screamed, and cried while my parents ran to the bottom of the basement steps. As I sat there whimpering, my dad suggested drill backwards to get the drill out of my leg. That wouldn’t help the current predicament and brought back the screaming. But eventually we got the drill out, in a partially painless way, and I learned a useful lesson. Don’t play with sharp objects unless you want to deal with nearly unbearable pain and have a strange story to tell when you get older.