Across the yard, battling the sounds of playing children Rebecca lay sun bathing, in a bathing suit. Sundays were like this, controlling her contempt for her, relatively distanced, distantly related family members, and trying her best to acquire skin cancer.
//// 15 minutes, flip \\
Mondays were also like this, as were Tuesdays and Wednesdays; In fact, the whole week was. For it is forever Sunday in the world of the ridiculously wealthy. Rebecca was ridiculously wealthy. Or rather, to be more precise, Rebecca’s father was ridiculously wealthy, but blood and other ties that bind (contracts) Rebecca was wealthy as well. Ridiculously wealthy. Her father’s estate, Xanadu, was built up upon a huge man made hill. It was here that she was sun bathing, in her bathing suit. Because of the relative distance to the sun, she thought to herself, she shouldn’t push the burn. (Icarus).
//// 13 minutes, flip \\
Lazy and hazy, she drifted in and out of waking and dream life. On the tagesschu the sounds of WVEK-FM wafted into her eardrums triggering light neurological flickers. It seemed that “The Johnny-D Live @ Five Show” had been replaced, or maybe it wasn’t five? Nevertheless, the tagesschu blathered ripely about “the skirmishes” and “the incidents” and “the significance”.
———>Commercial Break
Call- 1-800-rug-docs!
Buy- Grandma Martin’s creamed corn
Join- the Construction Battalion
Wear- Inactive-Wear
—————————————-
Skirmishes, incidents, significance… Rebecca sat up and dialed down the tagesschu. Flickers had turned to flutters and she wanted neither. Ignoring one conspiracy against her was enough work already. Focus on the family, rather unfocus on the family. Or focus on not focusing on the family. *Sigh*
//// 17 minutes, flip \\ /\/\/\/\/\Pay attention!
She was doing her part.
Contractually, doing her part.
Her part was being done.
Rebecca did her part as an heiress. Sun bathing in a bathing suit. Sun bathing in the bathing suit. Someone had to do her part and she did. She did it, and did it ripely. It was important for the troops. It was her job to apply the lotion, drink the margaritas (mimosas, Snapples, and other expensive beverages), and dance the late nights at the Rhoades Car Club.
Several moments later„,
She hated to do it, but sounds of the children had reached their irritating pinnacle. She dialed the tagesschu back up, anything to drown the sounds of the children. “The Skirmishes”, and “the Incidents”, and “the Significance” continued to blather. The fluttering had returned—skipping flickering this time—her lack of action had had consequences. The consequences began to sink in deeply. Deep in the depths of her body. As deep as it could go. All over, she could feel its waves. It was a shame, and her skin was burnt. Ridiculously burnt.
