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It appears Dimensions has decided to play hide and seek with my access to the site until I cough up some dough for an upgrade! (And here I thought we were friends...) All I can see is the first post—everything else is blanked out including my very own literary half-finished half-masterpiece in the Library and any witty comments I've ever made. Thank you Dimensions. I really feel appreciated.

So, alas, I won't be able to sprinkle my charm and wisdom anymore or indulge in the delightful banter of others.

But lo and behold, I can still write here! Mwahaha!

So, my dear friends, what's the latest scoop with you? And you? And you?
I've been up to a smorgasbord of activities—jetting off to Japan a few times, penning stories like a modern-day Edward Bulwer-Lytton , and even dipping my toe (Yes, only one, coz one has to be careful) into the world of art!
Oh, the tales I could regale you with, if only Dimensions didn't have a paywall tighter than Scrooge's purse. (I wanted to write scrotum, but that would be too much, wouldn't it?)

If you really want to, you can hear me say
Only if you want to will you find a way.
If you really want to you can seize the day.
Only if you want to will you fly away.

Da da da da, da da da da da.

Oh, the trials and tribulations of the modern-day scribe! I'm not sure of the text limits in About box, but let's push the envelope, shall we?

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of Very Much Another Site, I wrote two prodigious tales of nearly epic proportions: "Adephi - the fattening sorority" and "Angela's Farm." These literary behemoths (in both literal and figurative sense - now you figure it out) stretched across a glorious 40 chapters (literary stamina).

Yet, as with any tale worth telling, a twist emerged. Driven by a desire for perfection, I chose to rewrite these tales (we already established: prodigious, epic and behemoth, so I'm not repeating this drivel)

And so, like a snail at a leisurely soiree, I began to post them slowly on Very Much Another Site (since, as we've already established, posting privileges here had been revoked, presumably amid my astonishingly good looks).

So, there you have it—my ongoing adventure of penning riveting narratives!

What? Still more space to write? Damn.

When there's a journey, you follow a star.
When there's an ocean, you sail from afar.
And for the broken heart, there is the sky.
And for tomorrow are those who can fly.

I really don't know what else I can type here. Oh maybe some excerpts?

Let's see.

Excerpt From Angela's farm, Chapter 3:

Jenna was flipping pancakes, cheerfully spilling out of her shorts and top. Aunt Angela stood next to her frying eggs, humming a tune, and taking up the entire space in front of the stove and then some.

"Mom, please move your butt; I can't even reach the pan."

"O’Connors have always had short arms," Angela replied. "My grandmother could only cook on the closest burner and still needed a very long spoon."

"Yeah, sure, mom. Short arms are definitely what our family has always been known for. I've seen the pictures of your grandma. She could barely wrap her arms around her gigantic belly."

"Precisely! Short arms. Mine are getting shorter too. See?" Angela just noticed the girls standing at the kitchen door. "It's about time, you two. Bring me those plates from the table."

She made no attempt to turn around from the stove. She just backed up like a truck and piled five fried eggs, four sausage links, and about half a can of baked beans on each of the three plates.

“That’s too much,” Olivia protested. "Ouch! Why did you do that Sarah?"

"Shush!" Sarah kicked her again.

“Too much of what?" Angela's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you learn in school that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? Except for lunch and dinner, of course. You two are as thin as the pancakes my lovely daughter is burning because of her SHORT ARMS. And you Sarah, stop giggling. At least Olivia has some color in her cheeks." With that Angela pinched Olivia's cheek with her plump fingers and wiggled it like a plush toy. "But you," she released Olivia's face and shifted her attention to her niece, poking her in the shoulders, "you look like my sister is feeding you just pulped IKEA furniture. Imagine a customer walking into our store looking for a pound of organic butter and seeing you two hanging around. They'd run away, convinced we are thinning our milk with rainwater. And you Jenna, you shouldn't be laughing either. I saw that Sanders' daughter in the general store yesterday, and you have some serious catching up to do."

Excerpt From Angela's farm, Chapter 6:

The alarm clock in her head started beeping, and the train stopped. "Dammit," she thought. That's her stupid luck, just as she was about to enter the ice cream cart. But in a way, it was good news because Olivia was almost certain she had forgotten to pack her swimsuit.

She opened her eyes with a mix of disappointment and relief. No, she wasn't zooming through the countryside on light rail. This place didn't even look like it was in King County at all. None of the cafes she frequented had an annoyingly beeping butter churner tucked away in the corner.

Jenna yawned from the other side of the bench. "Wake up, intern. The butter-sucker is ready." She got to her feet and started pushing a bucket with her foot until it was positioned under the churner, making a merciless screeching noise in the process, effectively ending Olivia's hope of figuring out what ice cream flavors they served in her dream.

She got up from the bench too and slowly shuffled her feet over to the machine just as a pale white liquid started draining into the bucket, making a noise like someone who really, really needed to go to the bathroom.

"Buttermilk," Jenna said as she opened the lid of the churner. Olivia was about to ask, "Where?" because Buttermilk sounded like a great name for a cat, but Jenna continued talking, leaving Olivia's mouth open at the "W" sound. "Pay attention. This next step is super important."

With a spoon ready, she carefully scooped a chunk of butter, glimpsed at it with fondness, and then, without warning, she stuffed it into Olivia's mouth. Taking advantage of the moment of surprise, she quickly followed it with another spoon for a good measure.

Excerpt From Angela's farm Chapter 9:

The night was dark and humid. Right in front of them, the lights of the main house flickered like two fireflies, and at a distance, some animal made its eerie night noise.

Olivia shivered. She was an easy prey. Forget running; tonight, she had serious issues walking. She had really pushed herself with the second batch. Hannah just kept going and going like a broken clock, and Olivia, of course, didn't want to appear weak. After all, the creamery was her home turf, and she was the butter master. Now, she felt like a tank truck, one of those you see blocking your view when you attempt to pass your driving test for the fifth time. Filled with a creamy milkshake sloshing inside with each step.

When they entered the kitchen, Jenna and Alyssa were in the middle of a pancake eating contest, and by the number of pancakes left on each plate, Alyssa was clearly winning. She was stuffing three pancakes into her mouth at once, dispelling any remaining questions about how she got to 400 pounds so quickly, and making it very clear that this lovely number was only temporary. Jenna was trying her best, of course, but her best was, as the irritating folks like to say, not nearly good enough.

"Jeez," Sarah looked up from the table. From her bored expression, it was obvious that she had already witnessed one too many eating competitions that night. "I leave Olivia in your hands for an hour, Blondie, and you return her fifteen months pregnant. Actually, you both look like you're about to give birth to hippo twins, so I assume the orgy was miles better than witnessing my cousin trying to prove that she's still got it."
She covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, "No, she doesn't. This is the fourth time she has lost. It's like watching grass paint itself dry."