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May 23, 2009
Cameronís letter

The windmills peeking over the hills in the distance have an almost hypnotic effect on me, all fifteen spinning in tandem like some sort of mechanical calisthenics team. They spin, and from their spinning wind is produced (a flour mill makes flour; therefore, a windmill makes wind. Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me) and this wind is the Enemy. It strives to push me backwards, to rip my jacket off of my body, to blind me with dust. My hair resembles a dandelion clock, or the mane of a very surprised lion. Iím chewing on Life-Saver Gummis © by the handful to keep my mouth moisturized.

Then Dad asks: ďOk, so are you guys ready to start?Ē

Cue the loud whooshing noise that accompanies any self-respecting Lost flashback. Iím up at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM to go on an eleven mile hike that Iím suddenly not too excited about. I drag myself to the bathroom to take a shower, but Joss is already in there. I drag myself to bed to snag a few extra minutes of sleep, but then someone knocks at the door. I drag myself to the door and open it.

Mom comes in. ďCan I use your computer?Ē I drag myself to my laptop. Didnít she have her own computer? Sheís talking to me about something about the news, or the radio, or phone calls, but in my current mental state it sounds like a vague buzzing noise.

Joss exits the shower, I go in. Ten minutes later we drag ourselves downstairs and eat waffles from the sparse continental breakfast the hotel has provided. My phone rings. Apparently, itís very cold outside (of course. It was only 8AM. The sun probably hasnít risen yet) and Dad is going to join us for breakfast at IHOP. Joss and I wolf down the rest of our waffles and then head back upstairs to hurriedly pack.

I eat Salt at IHOP. Supposedly thereís sausage, egg, and hash brown in there somewhere but all I taste is Salt. Itís fine, Iíve already had a waffle. Dad warns us of the coldness of the wind, and then walks off into the sunrise. Joss and I go back to our room to pack the rest of our stuff.

End of flashback. Wide-angle shot of three figures struggling across a barren landscape. Loud wind noises. Closeup of dead animal roadkill. Pan shot of car zooming by. Closeup of cows. Closeup of windmills, making wind.

Also, we were going uphill.

Now it may seem like Iím complaining and that the entire day was thoroughly unenjoyable. Thatís not true, exactly. When I consider the alternative, I could have been sleeping and dreaming about my housemates back in Santa Cruz defacing Mount Rushmore, or something. Instead I was out in the wilderness (asphalt-covered, wind-powered, and cow-infested, but wilderness nonetheless), boldly going where no Cameron has gone before, alongside my spastic brother and my four-legged father (really, what are those walking sticks for?). To say that the day was a waste of time would be completely wrong.

So there. Happy 50th, Dad. I have no idea how (or why) youíre repeating this one day for another week and a half, but good for you. Maybe when Iím 50 Iíll challenge myself to riding my hovercar from Cupertino to the Moon Colony. For now, Iím going to go take a nap.


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