Not 48 hours after I called Dan Fogelberg a pussy it's announced he's battling prostate cancer. I feel like I prison raped Karma and now it's staring me down with a shiv in fate's exercise yard.
How's that for melodramatic?
This afternoon my lovely wife and I depart the hallowed halls of our home to embark on our first weekend alone since the last weekend alone resulted in baby bottles and diapers. We're celebrating our four year, eleven month anniversary. When the actual five year anniversary comes up next month we'll acknowledge it with ennui.
Gert is going to Grandma's for her first sleepover. Two, actually. I'm curious to see who cracks first. The smart money is on Gert to win in ten rounds.
We will be somewhere in the woods drinking beer and mocking people for two days. I trust you guys can be left to your own devices? Of course not. I'll come home to comments on my blog accusing me of rotting Dan Fogelberg's man parts and someone will bring up some of the darker blemishes in my CD collection.
Everyone's a bastard, even if they claim not to be. Yes, even you Bucky.
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