Library.
I'm beginning to think that my writing benefits from being in front of a window.
Like dictating a novel while doing the dishes.
I can see the roof of the Arts building.
Sort of makes me feel like a bird.
Or a roofer.
I saw photos of my grandfather putting a roof on his new shed.
With my father.
And "is that Colin on the roof, too?!"
Mom: Yeah, Colin was their helper.
Me: But he's like, four!
Mom: Pop insisted he be up there with them.
And they wonder why I can't use anything that requires its own fuel.
I didn't volunteer to be useless, y'know.
For the record.
I used to frequently ask to help dad.
But I was always "too little."
Now the joke is on my parents and future wife.
Because this response eventually mutated into "too lazy."
Speaking of harbouring my shortcomings, I'm sort of at the library in order to avoid mowing Avril's lawn.
Her mom asked me to do this.
Avril suggested that I do a shitty job so that they won't ask me to do it again.
Which takes the pressure off of me to try and figure out how I'm supposed to do a good job.
So use your kids for labour, everyone!
Tell them that they don't get their supper untili they sweep the chimney.
Otherwise, you'll end up with me:
A 28 year-old hobo who's only good for washing the dishes.
And looking out the window.
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