Day 21- 35,547 Words

When I sat down to write today, I was struck by a sudden desire to never write again.  Ever.  I am having more trouble than I thought that a person could have while writing.  This is awful.  But, I decided that I will have to stick with it.  I am going to write 1,500 words per day and finish on the last day.  The end of my novel is going to be incredibly underwhelming.  I have no energy left.

I am going to try to catch up on blogs soon.  Sorry for being MIA for the past two days.

I do feel a little re-energized after hearing the amazing news that Chad Kroeger and Avril Lavigne are engaged.  This is amazing.  And, it also served as inspiration:

The day had not started off promising: she had awoken to a post on her favourite web site, Person.com, that shocked her to her very core.  It was the news that would end all news: the natural and home-grown Canada’s songstress Avril Lavigne (who was quite obviously Canada’s Kristen Stewart), and the frontman of the natural and home-grown Canadian supergroup Nickelback, Chad Kroeger (now Canada’s Robert Pattinson?), were engaged to be married.  Penny Lane had finally found her Sk8r boi, apparently.  Whoa, Canada!  She hadn’t even known that they were dating!  How was she supposed to process this much terrible music in one relationship so suddenly?  She hadn’t had any warning! Apparently Lavigne, 27, and Kroeger, 37, first got together in February to co-write a song for Lavigne's upcoming fifth studio album. That song would have surely been a summer smash, and as much of a treat for the eyes and ears as a get-together with the soon to be Kroeger.  "A romantic relationship blossomed as they spent time writing together," a Lavigne pal (and aspiring poet?) told ‘Person’ Magazine.  “Their whirlwind romance that had blossomed only six months before had apparently culminated on Aug. 8, when Kroeger popped the question, presenting Lavigne with a 14-carat diamond sparkler” according to a ‘Person’ magazine staffer.  Ellie had spent some time wondering if ‘Person’ magazine might be hiring, because she might enjoy getting paid to write beautiful prose like that.  She also thought that she might hate herself too much.

Maybe Penny Lane was just an asshole.  Or maybe she had heard the way that Ellie said Carson’s name, as if she was replacing the “o” with a heart.  Maybe she was jealous that Avril Lavigne had gotten to Chad Kroeger first, and that she would have to go to the trouble of picking another Nickelback member to post pictures of their face above her bed and dream about marrying them someday.  Not to mention the very real concern that Chad Kroeger might not record songs that are terrible and sort of rape-ey with as much regularity.  Or maybe it was just her pathetic idea of a joke, inspired by Romeo and Juliet.  But either way, Penny Lane had forbidden Ellie to see Carson anymore.  She said that she had been watching “Becoming (Cup)cake: The (Inter)liminality of Bite-Sized Desserts,” and that she had been disgruntled by the looks of love that had been exchanged between the pair that were supposed to be rivals.

“Have you not learned anything from ‘Romeo and Juliet’?” Penny Lane had asked indignantly.

“Yes, I did.  I shouldn’t try to fake my own death and ultimately commit suicide out of love for some whiny teenager,” Ellie had responded pithily.

“That’s always a good lesson,” Penny Lane agreed.  “But seriously, no.  Buns of Steel is, as far as I’m concerned, the worst thing to ever happen to Montreal.  So tasteless.  They ruin the baking business for the rest of us hard workers who only want to star in our own reality television shows and get by.”

Either way, Carson was now off-limits.  Forbidden, as Penny Lane had said.  Done-so, as kids these days say. 

Why did the thought of that make her heart stop inside her chest?  Why did she suddenly have an urge to go over to Buns of Steel under the guise of wanting to get rid of some extra cupcakes so that she could really see if the owner and founder lived up to the name, if you know what I mean?  Maybe she could pretend that she was doing a survey of bakery owners, and go over to his bakery to ask him if he wears boxers or briefs.  The front page of the Toronto Sun had just declared that the fiery Italian American Ron Tortellini wears boxers, and she had since spent way too much time wondering if Carson did the same. 

She had come up with twelve different scenarios, each one less likely than the last, when she heard a knock at the door.  As she opened it she was greeted with Carson’s smiling face, who was too much of a dreamboat for his own good.  She noticed that Mick Tatum was also out back, practicing tearing off his tearaway pants in a sexy manner.

“Why doesn’t he just become a stripper?” she wondered aloud.