My Story Has No Plot, Yet I'm at 16,003 Words

I want to take this opportunity to welcome myself back to the NaNoWriMo blogs, a little earlier than I thought I would be. I can see that Indigo and Jill have had quite the time this weekend.

Jill, I am thinking of visiting you on Thursday-Saturday, and we could drive to Toronto together. What do you think? I will call you.

In story news, I have no idea what should happen next. Here is some of the new stuff that Olga has established:
-Fernando is going to be raking in the spinos next year, as he has gotten a big raise (over $1,000,000)
-Olga's parents are still angry with her
-the season is over, Fernando has a one-month break
-Olga misses home, the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup, and Daniel Alfredsson was disgraced
-Olga dislikes being so dependent on Fernando, since she has no friends (except for Sam)
-Olga's job sucks

I'm thinking that Fernando and Olga should go on a vacation, to liven things up in my book. I also think that they should have a fight, but I have no idea what about. I don't know what will happen between now (June) and Christmas!! Please, does anyone have any suggestions?

Here is my excerpt, with a borrowed character from Scott's novel:

Some days of work were good. Some were bad. And some were complete hell. Like this one. Harold Potter always tried to pawn off the more boring physiotherapy tasks on me, as well as the more asshole football players. Today was no exception. Gordon Tootie (why is everyone named Gordon?) looked like a string bean, and an underdeveloped string bean at that. His thick, unruly black curly hair cascaded down onto his dickey. You might think that he was wearing the dickey under a sweater, but you would be wrong. It was just the dickey. You might also think that this was the first time that he had worn only a dickey in public, but then you would also be wrong. He had obvious tan lines around the dickey. He had a creepy, and obviously Transylvanian accent, and when I asked him about it he claimed that he was from Northern Manitoba. When pressed as to where exactly in Northern Manitoba he called home, he became angry, which only emphasized the Transylvanian twang. There was obviously something more going on there, but when it comes to potential vampyres named Gordon, I generally like to just stay away.

In some freak accident involving Gold bond, a pink cardigan and a line painter, Gordon Tootie, the reserve team defender, had hit his groin (I suspect he was sans jock strap, and possibly sans pants). I was helping him to ice it, and giving him directions on how to not injure it further. Sadly, it was the most boring groin conversation I had ever had, and additionally, he was acting particularly bored for a guy that was discussing his groin with a tall, blonde woman. But such is work.

“I recommend you stay away from Gold Bond in the near future. If you do, I think that you can make it back in about a week,” I counseled him.
“If that was a joke, I’m not laughing,” he hissed in his blatant Transylvanian accent.
“It wasn’t a joke, Gordon,” I replied, trying not to let this little ass hat get the better of me.
“Are you almost done? I have a lot to do, so could you please hurry your sweet ass up?”
“Yes,” I replied, through gritted teeth, and hit him in the crotch a little harder than he would have liked, and went him off.

Some of the kids that I had to work with were real assholes. I understand that they’re upset because they’re injured, but yelling at me won’t make them heal faster. Maybe I should conduct some kind of study so I can conclusively report my hypothesis.

The first team members weren’t much better. They generally weren’t as bratty (well, other than Antonio Mourinho who comes in with mysterious wrist injuries once in a while) but they had entirely new sets of problems. When you’re that rich and pampered, you generally think that you’re entitled to everything. They even have “player liaison managers” (I would call them low-paid gofers) who essentially change light bulbs, hand-wash their jock straps, and hold their umbrellas in the rain. They even wear those snappy outfits like Farnsworth Bentley, who is Puff Daddy’s umbrella holder. When first team members would come in to the clinic, they would usually be accompanied by a gofer, and make disgusting demands. The worst I ever heard came from Hank Lampard, who wanted his gofer to go and pay off a paparazzi photographer who had captured him in a compromising position with a woman who was definitely not his fiancée. He discussed this right in front of me. Sergio Ramos too had to pay off a woman who had seduced him via web cam, persuading him to expose himself. She had plans to post the pictures on her online blog. Apparently, the pictures were not at all complimentary. He claimed that it was the cold, or the camera was improperly scaled. Whatever, Sergio.

Sadly, my co-workers weren’t a bright spot in my day, either. Harold had a type A personality, wanted everything to be just right, and yelled at anyone that failed to live up to his unreasonable expectations. He had made excessive use of his label-maker (which he named Trudy, much to my discomfort) and he alphabetized everything. It took me forever to understand his pointless systems. Bastian Grubauer failed to live up to any of my expectations. I thought that he would be fun like Bastian Schweinsteiger had been, but he was actually the opposite. I know it’s inappropriate to make comparisons to Nazis, and it took all of my energy to keep them confined to my twisted mind. Sadly, I didn’t understand anything that Iker Bernebeu said (he had a very thick Spanish accent) so I had to smile and nod whenever he talked to me, since I felt bad when I asked him to repeat himself. He thought that I was a total idiot. Rupert Hall was a total pervert. I wish that just once when I talked to him he wouldn’t blatantly stare at my chest.