Fuck, there it was again, the raw song of a discarded tomorrow…ha ha, these cacti sure did know how to nip a future in the bud.
Back at it again on the springboard, she felt like a long-awaited international fugitive, who crammed surface water sports galore into her eleven minute vacations despite the obvious risks. Why weren’t there more complaints? In the competition for complaints, she felt cheated. Everyone played at coming out in front. The inevitable mundane deceit was lurking.

Meanwhile the undulations in the springboard gave her goose bumps. Also, the nodules on the springboard gave her goose bumps. Goose bumps piggybacking onto goose bumps. Yup, a nodule complaint scenario making the most of an undulation complaint scenario, or vice versa.
Wait, were those actually nodules? Or were they pustules? The immediate fun of distinguishing between the two distracted her for as long as it took to flick away a ray of hope from someone’s rigid but eternally optimistic parents.
She felt like she’d totally missed the part where sightseers had flocked to the arid garden of healthy tufts around the springboard, rummaged in the long-abandoned sheds for…probably canoes…soured on the possibility of souvenirs, absentmindedly run their hands over the pink no-skid stuff, and…either the gloomy unclean baubles were transmitted from the sightseers, or to the sightseers. Either way, what she had to look forward to: souvenirs.


And being lectured at, by barking dregs without a budget. Oh fuck, it was her long-cherished ambition to act like she felt absolutely wrong about a bauble. Oops, baubles, plural. That would definitely sew up her hectic schedule, at least the block allocated to unclean baubles.
Humanitarians in your face…the chances seemed dimmer and dimmer of being healed in time for lunch, and now she was thinking only of her lunch, not what she would be obliged to feed the elaborate natural enemies of her lunch.


What the springboard needed was a trailing plant—the trailing plant would grow balloons—the sightseers would pop the balloons and everyone would go home with a chance someday of not waking up with pustules. If only she had a budget, just imagine what kind of backstage photos she could start collecting.
Holy fuck, she felt suffocated, but at the same time approachable. Her throat was tightening quite possibly because a nodule named Gerald had taken a dislike to the sight of her when she pulled herself together. And became approachable. Really, she flourished when she pulled herself together. But still, her throat was tightening and she was steering the lovable vehicle whose name emerged from other throats in her direction. When she was approached.
She needed to get out in the sun and fill herself in. Her butt crack needed to get out in the sun. Some high-spirited drum-majorette form of exercise in the desert that really worked her butt crack.
It was like the expectation was that just saying the word “undulation” counted as exercise. Fuck! The undulations were evolving. They themselves were becoming full-blown, fully socialized throngs of sightseers, in motion. But at least shrewdly maintaining a safe following distance. At least there would be no complaints about sightseers and heedlessness, an undulation pileup.
She peeked down the front of her shirt and let the springboard…loll…for a little while, making it impossible to track. Time to give herself the gift of self-interest, if only to restore a lukewarm harmony among those four limbs of hers living in the margins. Lukewarm because she’d been out of the sun too long. Four because she, um, muddled through with some attention to being too good for her own good.
Either she was daydreaming or it was a shallow nightmare. Seriously? The whole absurd subculture of, basically, sticking out her tongue and saying ahhh totally made her want to pack it in and just surrender to the easy way out: take a deep breath and volunteer.
Oh fuck, she already had volunteered!! It always happened this way. She’d said it and there was a lock on having said it. If only she could learn to shut the door so as not to fall into the same old trap.