A Writing Day at The Last Resort

It was one of those days where you say to yourself, "What the heck! I'll throw caution to the weak Toronto wind and just run, careless and carefree, to where my heart takes me. I'm going to break free from these desk and chair-shaped shackles that have monopolized my time for far too long. I'm off! Off to the cottage to ... uh, ... to do homework, but! not before I ... um, well, right after I move some furniture."

My dad and I left in the rented truck at 6-something in the morning. The pre-dawn chill was invigorating! (I wrote that sarcastically, but it really wasn't all that bad.) I fell into a death-sleep as we drifted through Barrie. It was one of those heavy sleeps where someone could have side-swiped our car, thrown a chainsaw-wielding bear into the cab, and my weighted eyelids would still have remained shut regardless of whether I wanted them open or not. It was nice. Sleep like that doesn't happen to me too often. Before I regained consciousness, we were (t)here.



After pops got things going inside, I packed some snow into a pot to melt for tea ...



... and we sat down to devour these huge, gravylicious roast-beef sandwiches. Our lunch steamed like it was made with molten meat and lava bread, which suggests that we're a) spirit-beings who remain unaffected by the physical realm 2) robots made of indestructible metal, or d) it was really cold and dry in there.

After lugging a beastly, wooden shelf thing upstairs with my indestructible robot dad, he left to check on a friend's place and I hunkered down by the stove for a bit of writing. Dad got a shot of the riveting action on his return.



It was a good trip. Dad's great like that – I guess it's called 'being content,' but even if we encountered the worst of circumstances and everything went horribly wrong, it would have still been good to spend time together. Thankfully, in addition to being fun and worthwhile, it was also a productive day.