This has officially turned me off cake, probably forever. Now all I need to do is keep it in my fridge. It's the chest hair. Chest hair and cake. I get the heaves just thinking about it.
My promises to you, dearest reader, should you choose to sing along: A good story. Some halfway decent writing. Literary allusions and song lyrics. Musings on work, health, travel, beaujolais, religion, cooking, a theory that the impressionists had poor eyesight, and maybe even love, someday. And immediate notice of any lucrative book deals.