Defeated Decorators

At the start of seventh period this afternoon in the Library, one could find my contorted body sitting Indian-style on the musty blue carpet, very much on edge. Nervously my eyes shot back and forth between three long rows of cakes labeled as either 'Theme', 'Character', or ' Book Cover'. While scoping out the competition, only one solitary thing occupied my mind at exactly fifteen 'till three: "Book It Bake It means war. No more nice Mrs. Cupcake. I pulled out the big pans for this competition. Some major cake butt will need to be iced after I'm done tearing up the judges' table." Confidence was breaming as I looked back and winked at my Wizard of Oz cake.

I lost.

"Blasphamy!" I pugnaciously declared. Not only was there a tie for first place in my category, but also a three-way tie for third place. And guess whose cake did not win any of the six possible places? Mine. No need to rub it in. I know eactly what went askew. The evil cake spirits cursed my cake because an indecent little man was held captive under the Pamprin Medicine box I decorated as a house. Since I was acting as a villian towards an inanimate object, the cake spirits made my cake invisible to all judges, and uberly appealing to students. While lying on a retro chaise lounge with my psychiatrist (who happens to be a midget created by my imagination), we both agreed that it's the only reasonable explanation for our failure. Phew. And to think we might have lost because the cake wasn't really all that good. Glad I realized the truth!

This little bump in the road for my quest to dominate the cake world will not hold me back. Adoring fans, please do not fret. I will still pursue my dreams of winning a Book It / Bake It competition. This eensy weensy (insert 'yellow polka dot bikini' song from the Yoplai commercial) set-back has only made me more aware of the discipline which needs to be implemented to reach my goal: To win a pize of $10 written on a check with my name on it! To do so, I will spend one million dollars in supplies (heavily equip my kitchen with the most foul tasting fondant known to man-kind), create a strict regimen of baking at minimum two cakes per week modeled after book covers, and hire Julia Childs to train me in the art of speaking in a high headvoice. With all that, I shall be well prepared to bash next years' competition and take home the $10 I've always dreamed of calling my own.

Am I bitter?
 No.
Should your bittersweet chocolate cake be scared next year?
Oh yeah.