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Friday, June 6, 2008

Tired now...where's the wine?

I just finished a ton of writing. More writing in one sitting than I've done in a long time...like, since last summer when I had to write a rough dissertation proposal. This wasn't nearly as long, but I'm still tired.

I won't tell you why, just yet. You'll just have to suffer--because I know you are all dying to know my every move. Could my head be any bigger? Don't answer that. Especially not you, AEA.

I'll explain later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Sunday. It all depends on how much time Erin gives me over the next couple of days.

Erin tried to put on her mom's shoes yesterday. I about died of cuteness.

9 comments:

Mandy said...

um... the next great American novel?

Black Hockey Jesus said...

Write On Backpacking Dad!

Jennifer H said...

Well, now I'm curious, and I only just got here.

for a different kind of girl said...

I imagine it's tough to rhyme your affections with "FADKOG," and thus is the reason why you had to do a ton of writing. I also imagine you sitting there with little mounds of crumple up paper growing around you.

How close am I?

Backpacking Dad said...

mandy: I wish. I don't write good enough.

black hockey jesus: because you capitalized all the words in your comment I'm trying to figure out the secret achronymical message you are sending me.

jennifer h: well, if you stick around I promise I'll tell you. But only you. The rest of them can go hang.

FADKOG: I can hardly move for all the paper. Most of them say "FADKOG is a red-haired...." and then I give up. "FADKOG writes pretty funny blog. Oh, de do da day."

BookMomma said...

Waiting with baited breath...

for a different kind of girl said...

The trick is to spice up the words. For example:

Red Hair = Flame

Lame rhymes with flame. See how easy that is? You're already halfway through writing the perfect poem about me!

Backpacking Dad said...

bookmama: crap; now I'm going to have to make it worthwhile

FADKOG: Flame also rhymes with came, maim, and fame. That's a disturbing poem that's being written there.

for a different kind of girl said...

Toss in aim, dame, and shame and that's the bones of a poem that gets scrawled into the stalls of a men's bathroom. Thus, perfection!