It's Fiesta Day at the beach. Ivy and Nancy taking a siesta. Naked, nude,
pressed into each others soft arms & boobies. Swinging asses in a
hammock. The calm clam palms, the clam seas, the soft sands. Soft hands
on the soft sands. Cute clams under the calm palms.

Uhoh, here comes the evil-nippled Jennifear! She has change in her eyes.
She has unsatisfied eyes that want you to do a little more, always, just
one more thing and then you'll be perfect. She has ripe rotten mangoes in
her eyes. She undulates like a nematode. She writhes in her skin like an
earthworm on a drying sidewalk.

Jennifear is driven. Her skin is slack and wasted and hangs off her in
sheets. She trembles. Her cone of attention is 3 microns wide. Lips set
in a tight line, she rattles off what's wrong with everything around her.
She's riffing on it — it's her Importance. She coughs. She's shriveled
from the fight. She forgot to make souljuice. She forgot to open the
Kundalini valves.

You can't console Jennifear — she'll do her best to kill you. Her fears
and hates are the load-bearing columns of her personality. Without them
she doesn't know who she'd be. She'd be a suit of skin in a pool on the floor.
She has no time for whores — she's busy sucking dry the shriveled zombie
cock of the American Dream.

It's not her that tries to kill you, though. It's her ideas. They possess
her like demons. They come in her nose and eyes and coil up in her brain
and nest like earwig larvae. They exude their own toxins of protection,
whiplash reactions and chemical signals. Jennifear, poor thing, doesn't
know how to stop it all.

Lots don't. They remain in constant motion like trees in a windy place.
All they know is motion they never originated. Motion blown from the
puffed cheeks of windy demons. They blow the prayer wheel of her mind so
fast, no gods can read it.