Okay, so I haven't posted in a long time. But I've been busy, dammit. Busy making cakes.

Like this:

And this:

And this:

Yes, I am the ambassador of refined white sugar, bringing diabetes to a welcoming world with all the subtle diplomacy of a John Bolton (without the violent temper or the funky-ass moustache). And I expect to be petted and paid for my efforts, thank you very much.

Which brings me to the subject of praise whoredom.

I am an unabashed praise whore. Compliments are the ultimate John, and they don't have to pay extra to ride bareback. I beg for a "that's delicious!" with all the ardency of a 14-year-old runaway tweaker whining "dontcha think I'm pretty?" on a street corner.

It's as if my very worth and value as a human are contingent upon strangers vocally appreciating the fluffiness of my frosting, the creaminess of my lemon mousse filling, or the richness of my Kahlua fudge cake. Sad, really.

Fortunately, I'm surrounded by praise pimps. Fully cognizant of my addiction, they funnel bits of acclaim my way. And then watch in pitying horror as I writhe in ecstasy, wallowing naked in the kudos, hugging flattery to my heart as if it were a warm, wriggly puppy licking my face in the very joy of being near me.

Hold on.... I'm having a praisegasm....

Aaaahhhhh.