So, you want to build a thing! Well congratulations! It doesn’t really matter what it is: a swing set, a birdhouse, a non-functional but super ironic rectangle made of 2x4s meant to represent the television you don’t own, whatever. You just want to hammer some shit together, point at it, and say “LOOK. LOOK AT THAT THING I DID.” There are a lot of things to keep in mind when you’ve decided you’re going to construct something. But the most important thing is: you don’t know what you’re doing.

“But then how do I build a thing?!” You ask, crankily, stomping impertinently on the ground and crossing your arms in a huff. Chill, friend. Just because you have no idea how to wield a power drill with confidence doesn’t mean you don’t have a friend who can. If your friend is relatively docile, you can probably tether them to a pole in your basement long enough to snap pics of their handy work and claim it as your own Twitter.

But let’s say you actually have to “help” and “do things” and “not watch from the porch while eating a sandwich.” OK fiiiiiiiiiiiine. How can you participate in the productive manufacturing of something without letting your inherent ineptitude totally fuck everything up?

Pay for everything. Your friends may own most everything you need: a tool set, paint brushes, a circular saw, a jigsaw, a hand saw, a doodle saw, a chicken saw, a frandanglefridgley saw[1]…but money talks. If you front the bill for building supplies, you can mostly claim the project as your own, much in the same way that Sandra Bullock can claim producer’s credit for The George Lopez Show even though that makes literally no sense whatsoever.  

Hold things, very sturdily. When you don’t really know how to make something on your own like a decent human being, the best you can really do is hold various items very still while other people do important things to them. Need to saw a board in half? You have to hold that board super ultra still while someone does the real work. Need to screw too boards together? You’ve got to hold them boards at the best 90° angle you can manage. Be sure to press them together extra hard so you look like you’re straining, wipe trickles of sweat off your brow, and later when your triceps kind of hurt you can feel like you accomplished something.

Offer to do the simple stuff. Nevermind that your average indifferent invertebrate struck with a particularly intense case of malaise could manage to sand the splinters out of a length of plywood. That’s your job now, dude! And you’d better take pride in it, because you have your own names for screwdrivers, like “the flat one,” “the t-shaped one,” and “the stupid hexagon one that IKEA thinks is so fucking great.”  If credit for work done is divvied up by actual individual tasks completed, you’ll get a good 75% share so long as you’re willing to paint, sand, organize, and hunt on your hands and knees for dropped screws in your back yard for a solid hour.

Offer to document the entire process via social media. When our robo-raptor overlords finally manage to eradicate the terrified and hopeless cave-dwelling remnants of humanity with their solar-powered flame throwers, all that’ll be left will be a bunch of pissed-off cockroaches and social media. In that hypothetical-and-yet-highly-probable future, your construction project will be lost to history. But your frequent tweets, Imgur photos, Facebook updates, and Foursquare check-ins at a series of hardware stores will be preserved for all of eternity in the vast electronic tundra that is social platforms. So even if you’re having trouble convincing your close friends that you had an active hand in the construction of your new bookshelf, at least Gergafron the Scrumbunctulous, Emperor of the Robo-Raptors, will get the impression the work was entirely your own.

Be very apologetic. You can’t really plan for amateur building projects, because so much can go wrong. But you can at least expect that you’re going to botch all sorts of shit. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry I lost that nail.” “Shit, sorry about that. I’ll just glue it back together.” “Aw damn, sorry I jimmied that plank of wood by trying to scratch my calf with it while you were sawing it in half. I’ll call Blue Cross/Blue Shield to see if they’ll cover a friend’s finger re-attachment.”

Admitting you’re a sad, pathetic excuse for a successful adult is the first step toward making something awesome. Godspeed, and remember: only paint in well-ventilated areas, and if you accidentally lop off both your hands, use your tongue to dial 911 on your iPhone.