For years now I have run a kitchen-sink punk salon in my house, called Salon du Gay. In the early days, people would pay for a riot grrrl bob or a passable bleach job with a mixtape, $3 or a selection of baked goods – whichever they could afford. More recently though, with Gossip doing well, I’ve performed these punk hair transformations for free.

Last year I gave seventy-four phone hours to soliciting baked goods for the Bake-A-Rama. I was named Top Call Girl by the League.

Cupcakes are the tattooed brunette chick of the baked goods world.

I wished that my job was baking muffins in a muffin shop, where all I’d have to do was crack eggs and measure flour and make change, and nobody could abuse me, and where they’d even expect me to be fat. Every flab roll and cellulite crinkle would serve as testimony to the excellence of my baked goods