LXX. BOB!

The Little Martian stretches and contorts in a hyper handstand, and I watch as he fumbles and tumbles, landing in a heap on the ground. His bright pink yoga mat flounces beneath him, and the Martian, unharmed but rattled, sobs on the soggy floor.

“This shit is exhausting,” he weeps.

“Maybe it’s time to take a break from all the yoga?”

“Yoga... gymnastics, emotional somersaults, and pole vaults!” the Martian shudders between gasps and sobs.

“Stretching, expanding, twisting, and turning—I feel like a ducking slab of taffy whirling around a mixie, getting kaddu-kussed as I go along.”

“We all do,” I remind the Martian simply.

“Excuse me?” he snaps, his head darting up as I break the flow of his self-pitying soliloquy.

“We all feel this shit—this overwhelming, twisty-turny churn of responsibility. It isn’t just you.”

The Martian opens his mouth, as if to refute me, but then thinks better of it.

“And the—”

“The emotional somersaults and pole vaults?” I ask him, only half-teasing.

“Yeah, what about that shit?”

“We’re all as wrought and discontent, don’t you worry.”

“There’s no way. There is no ducking way.”

I laugh, but the Little Martian looks astonished.

“You guys all feel this shit?”

“Indeed.”

“To the same degree?”

“Gosh, no. We’d combust.”

“Then how the duck am I supposed to stay afloat?”

“Just bob.”

“Bob?”

“Yes, bob.”

“Like an idiot?”

“No, like a wave.”

“Bob like a wave?”

“Yes.”

“That’s vague as hell.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Gimme a fix-all. A rationale. An answer to the ephemeral chaos, the lack of structure, and the general uncontrollability of the world!”

“I just did.”

“Oh right. Bob.”

“Yes. Just bob.”

Bobby the bobber bobs happily , aware yet unavailable to the chaos around him. The Little Martian wants to slap that smug smirk off his face.. but instead of getting all riled up he tells himself to - just ducking bob.