Ow.

There comes a time, at about midnight, when you're in the sculpture studio whacking away at a huge lump of plaster, and you wonder what the hell you're doing. There comes a time, at about 12:30, when your arm feels like it's about to fall off and the only other person in the studio (who happens to have control of the CD player) begins playing Alanis Morisette, and you wonder if you might be developing masochistic tendencies. At about 1, I was still busy distracting myself from the pain in my hands by telling myself I was willing to do "whatever it takes" to "get it done." By 1:30, I was wondering why I want this so bad, and what precisely "this" is, not to mention what precisely "getting it done" entailed.

I used to wonder what people in books were thinking, when they plowed so long their hands blistered and the blisters broke and bled. I mean, yeah, feeding your family is important and all, but why didn't they stop to at least put bandaids on? Did they get some sort of grim satisfaction from bleeding hands or something? Or was their joy at a nicely plowed field simply transcendent of all that? I think I might be starting to understand - at least how they got the blisters. If you see me any time soon, the most likely words you'll hear are: "Ow ow ow," "Pain," or "Auuughhhh." Yes, I know, even less articulate than I usually am.

I gave up at about 2:30, after the other girl left and I got lonely and sorta scared being in a huge studio with lots of threatening power tools at, well, 2 in the morning. I spent half an hour cleaning up (I'd no idea plaster could fly so far), and headed back to my dorm. I considered trying to stay up all night and finish roughing out the piece, going out to look at the sunrise, then going home to clean up and go to church, but the reality of the wee hours of the morning isn't nearly as romantic and ideal as it sounded in my head. It mostly involves a lot of misery and glazed staring.

I was cold, had a headache, three blisters, couldn't close my hand into a fist (even to hold a toothbrush or hairbrush), and white from head to toe. My hands kill. My arms ache. Guess what? I'm gonna go back tomorrow and do it all again. Yes, I am. Because notwithstanding the vagueness of the terms, I do want "this" really badly, and I will do "whatever it takes" to "get it done." Whether that means working as a janitor, taking 18 credits every semester, or only sleeping 5 hours a night, I will do it and I will get it done, and no amount of blisters is going to stop me.

Full stop. End rant. Good night.