studio chicken

I have come to the conclusion that late nights in architecture studio is like a game of chicken. Who can last the longest? Who can endure the pain? You watch people pack up their laptops, wind up the long white charger cords, and tuck their headphones away in pockets. And internally, you smirk. Part of you envies them, as they wipe their eyes and stretch their arms and talk of going home and the softness of their beds that await them there. Yet as much as you truly envy them, you imagine them envying you more. As they pass by your work station, bags slung across weary shoulders and various empty soda cans and takeout containers in hand, they glance over at you. Their looks attempt to convey a sense of sympathy, but you interpret them as saying: “Ah! If only I could be that strong!” And at that point, despite the kink in your neck, the bleariness in your eyes, and the weight in your typing fingers, a sense of victory surges within you. For as the clock strikes three in the morning, you have won the game of studio chicken.

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