Yesterday, I painted for 15 hours.... I'm so sick of paint... looking at it, tasting it... having it all over me... I'm over it. At least in the old days, it was toxic and you could at least get a buzz off of it... not so any more. And while I appreciate my friends giving me the job... at this point (with the amount of hours)... I think I made $0.58/hour. It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have counted it as a vacation... tempted by the sun... the warmth... the jetskis outside my window... this will sound crazy, but I wish that I could come back and just sit... look at it all... get out in it... without the worry of having a huge list of things to do. It's a job that just so happens to be in a nice climate.
I'm the kind of person that can't cut corners. Somehow, my Dad's work ethic got instilled in me (curse him) and I can't do a shitty job. And fortunately for other's who are on the receiving end... but unfortunately for me on the giving end.... it makes it hard for me to be in a service industry because I do a fantastic job, but it never works out monetarily. I leave tomorrow... and my friends come in tomorrow night... even with the pictures, it's hard to see the amount of work that has been done, but I hope they know the personal attention that I gave to their place... and without them being here while it was going on, it feels lost in the brush strokes and blown away with the spackle dust.
I'm looking forward to coming home... only to start painting my Dad's kitchen.... to get the house finished to put on the market or rent out... the painting never stops.
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