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Three quail looking over a freshly harvested corn field. Malheur County, Oregon.

Purple Trainwreck is the name for a marijuana plant. Anything with ‘blue’ in the title came from the Blueberry strain– which is apparently THE BESTEST STRAIN OF MJ PLANTS EVER INVENTED BY A LOVING AND WONDERFUL GOD.

So, yours truly trimmed MJ this last weekend. It’s legal here in Oregon. And no, it has not always been legal here. My aunt has several plants and a commercial license and a small pot farm. I learned to trim the buds. I had a small pair of purple scissors, rubber gloves and a can-do spirit. Rubber gloves?— you find yourself asking yourself. Ah, because loco weed, in the raw and in the buff, is super-OMG-stickeeeeeeeeeeee. It also makes you itch and sneeze, makes your nose run. Because Weed is also a weed. I get rashes and the sniffles around weeds. I do have allergies to said stuff.

I worked and kept my head down. It was, ahem, Redneck Central and being a Liberal Snothead, yep. I also learned that a sales tax is the same as communism. I…yeah. I listened, a lot, because being around people reminds me that I hate being around people. Mostly, the talk around me was family-friend-people-I-don’t-know gossip. What so and so is doing about so and so. That bitch so and so did so and so and now so and so. I won’t repeat anything verbatim because I can’t afford a lawyer. Not that my ‘family’ would sue me for repeating anything they said or, ahem, did.

I did not go to Mountain Home, for that little gala for Whistle Pig, Volume Nine. Because my instincts said, hey, stay home, bad idea. And I had a quarter, if that, in my little pink drawstring purse I bought in Honduras. So yep, I chickshitted my way out of a networking opportunity with local writers, artists and such. The weather was also bad and it was snowing over in that country…I mean, excuses, I got em.

Okay! Let’s move on to a writing project of mine, shall we? I’d talk some more about my MJ bud trimming experiences, but it’s mostly…grab another stem, strip it, trim little stems, gloves are getting sticky, why is my cousin still with this Bitchmonster Womanbeast who’s been constantly pregnant for the last eighteen months now…

Aftermath is the tender, subtle tale of Hannah Gray, who finds herself in a microcosm that’s run by zombies. Through Hannah’s wacky misadventures, we discover some hard truths about our Present Day Society and how the current GOP dumpsterfucks are trying to re-create that first episode of Mad Men, right down to Don the Dickster Draper telling Jax’s old lady, Tara, that no woman talks to him like that. Yeah, it took me several episodes to figure out that woman that got Don all cheaty on Betty, bwha ha ha, is the same actress that plays Tara on SOA. That first episode before Civil Rights, before the moon landing, before…you know, the ‘good ole days’ that Hollywood writers made up as they did heavy drugs and chugged whiskey like it was going extinct.

Yeah, so.

Aftermath is my title, so far, for my, yes, zombie-infused tale. I know, shhh. Hush. Zombies. I know. But, for some reason, I just keep writing on said tale!

It started off as a short story. Some of you know this one. Where you sit down to write a short, brief, to the point take-down on modern society and feminist politics. Because we gals, amirite? Hallelujah and praise Jayyyyy-sus!

And this little flash fiction piece wannabe bloats, bwha ha ha, into some epic that MUST BE A THOUSAND PAGES LONG. Because you got stuff to say, man. You got stuff to say!

Or whatever you have to tell yourself. You remember, vaguely, that so and so was supposed to be a short story, not a modern political treatise barely disguised as a three-book zombie romp. You obsess about What Happens Next as you trim marijuana plants while your cuz talks about…uh huh.

Why is this called Purple Trainwreck? Because stoners name it. The more you know, right?

Back to Aftermath.

Actually, it’s where Hannah wakes up at a desk office after cutting her wrists during the zombie apocalypse. She’s understandably confused. Suddenly, she’s in sedate, boring office clothes, and ZOMBIES run everything. Except you can’t call them zombies. They’re…well, if I ever get this one anywhere near a publisher, you can read what zombies prefer to be called.

I’m just letting myself write. I’m just having fun with it. I’ve started it over. I’m at about thirty thousand words.

Oh. Also been editing my old blog posts. Yep. Someone was picture happy! Why did no one inform moi that moi was picture happy? You sonsabitches.

I need to go hang posters for my reading for next week. I have a real horror of leaving the house, interacting with others. It’s very nearly at the phobia stage. I am already considering how to get out of holiday gatherings. And then realize I’m an adult and I can choose to just not go.

So, the next time someone tells me how quiet I am, during the next tedious shitday spent trimming loco weed, I’m gonna totally agree with them and say nothing beyond that. Yep, I sure am. End it there. If they persist in ‘chatting’ with me…oh fuck, my stomach hurts now.


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