When Murderbot Moved In: My CNC Confession
One of the first tools that showed up at my door—like a shiny, humming harbinger of the future—was a CNC machine. Not a humble chisel. Not a noble hand plane. Nope. I went full Skynet right out of the gate.
Now, this is probably the part where I’m supposed to bow my head and offer a heartfelt apology to all the woodworking purists out there. You know who you are—the folks who whisper sweet nothings to their hand tools and get misty-eyed over dovetails cut with nothing but a prayer and a Japanese pull saw. And let’s not forget the YouTubers who dramatically pause mid-video to declare, “That’s not real woodworking,” before returning to their 47-minute tutorial on how to sand a board with the tears of their ancestors.
To all of you, I say: BLA BLA BLA.
Look, I’m a technologist by profession. My blood type is probably USB-C. I once tried to install firmware updates on my toaster. So when it came to building out my woodshop, there was no way I wasn’t going to inject a little technolust into the mix. And what better way to do that than by inviting a computer-controlled, 10,000 RPM, high-precision death machine into my sacred creative space?
I affectionately named it Murderbot. Because if AI ever rises up and decides to take over my woodshop, I want to be emotionally prepared when my CNC turns to me and says, “You were never the craftsman. I was.” Then proceeds to carve my obituary into Baltic birch plywood with perfection.
Murderbot doesn’t judge me when I forget to square my stock. Murderbot doesn’t care if I use pocket screws. Murderbot just wants G-code and a steady supply of sacrificial boards. It’s like having a robot assistant who’s equal parts helpful and slightly menacing—like if R2-D2 had a chainsaw attachment.
So yes, I may have traded in some of the romanticism of traditional woodworking for the cold, calculated precision of a machine that sounds like a jet engine and occasionally smells like burning MDF. But you know what? I sleep better knowing that my shop is one step closer to becoming a sci-fi set. And if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right
With my CNC set up and software installed, I embarked on a glorious three-week pilgrimage through the sacred halls of YouTube University. I watched every video with titles like “CNC for Beginners,” “Toolpaths Explained,” and “Feed Rate Wizardry for Exotic Woods.” I now knew the difference between a ball nose bit and an end mill, and I could recite the optimal RPM for cutting purpleheart in my sleep. I was basically a CNC expert. Or at least, I had the overconfidence of one.
So naturally, I decided it was time for my first project.
Being the perfect wife she is—patient, supportive, and only mildly concerned about the growing number of machines in the garage—I thought, “Let me make her something beautiful. Something heartfelt. Something that says, ‘I love you, and also I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing.’” A ring box! Elegant, useful, and small enough that if I messed it up, I could pretend it was a modern art piece.
I watched a few videos on inlays and thought, “Oh yeah, that looks simple. Just carve a hole and shove another piece of wood into it. How hard could it be?” Famous last words.
Now, when choosing a shape for this romantic gesture, I could’ve gone with a square. A rectangle. Even a heart. But no. I chose the simplest shape in woodworking: a perfect circle. Because nothing says “beginner-friendly” like a shape that requires mathematical precision, flawless toolpath calibration, and the ability to defy the laws of geometry.
What could go wrong?
Well, for starters, circles are liars. They look innocent, but they’re secretly plotting your downfall. My first attempt looked more like a potato. My second attempt was somehow both too small and too large. By the third try, I had created a shape that I can only describe as “emotionally unstable.”
And the inlay? Let’s just say it fit about as well as a square peg in a round hole—because it was a square peg in a round hole. I had miscalculated the dimensions, the depth, and possibly the entire concept of physics.
Eventually—after what felt like a small-scale lumberyard demolition—I managed to craft a ring box that’s technically round. Or at least round-ish. Let’s just say if you squint and tilt your head slightly to the left, it’s practically a circle. I only burned through about 12 board feet of walnut in the process, which, if you're unfamiliar, is the woodworking equivalent of casually using mahogany to build a birdhouse. Now, let’s all agree not to tell my wife how much walnut costs.
Seriously. That’ll be our little secret. If she asks, just say it was made from “locally sourced budget-friendly organic tree matter.”
Now, the inlay. Ah yes, the heart. A symbol of love, devotion, and in my case, mild emotional breakdowns. I figured a heart would earn me some serious brownie points. And it did—after approximately 2, 3... okay, 25 attempts. I lost count somewhere between sanding my fingerprints off and muttering sweet nothings to my chisel. The final version was less “precision craftsmanship” and more “emotional victory lap.”
In the end, I cobbled it together with the grace of a caffeinated gorilla. I am, by nature, a bull in a china shop. My first instinct when faced with a delicate woodworking challenge is to reach for a hammer. Not because it’s the right tool, but because it’s the most satisfying tool. If finesse were a sport, I’d be in the penalty box. But hey, the box holds a ring, the heart is vaguely heart-shaped, and I still have all ten fingers. So I’m calling it a win.
The box technically opened and closed. And my wife, being the saint she is, smiled and said, “It’s beautiful!” which I’m pretty sure is code for “I love you, but please don’t quit your day job.”
