I could die happy, writhing in misery, drowning in my own bodily fluids, IF I COULD LIVE AS A POTTER.
In short, I don't care about the dangers of silicosis, the possibility of starvation, the lack of health insurance. I would even revel in the failures. The spectacular disasters, with slumped shapes ruining kiln shelves, costing hundreds of dollars! The subtle, snarky jibes about your babies at "festivals." The compliments from non-buyers.
But then there's the other me. Stupid bitch thinks we need to pay the mortgage and have a lovely, safe haven. Oh, EFFF me.
Torn between two truths.