This the the rhubarb Odd Trundles kept digging up. For some reason–maybe he thought he was helping me, or that the poor plant had insulted his mother–he just had it in for the thing. I’m sure its position in a damp, shady spot had a little to do with its struggle, too.
But for six straight years, this motherfucker refused to die. It clung to life like a heroine with a gun, and finally I transplanted it to a nice spot with three-quarters sun and no Trundles.
And this year, it’s at it again. It simply refuses to quit.
Things are extremely stressful chez Saintcrow right now, what with publishers refusing to pay me what they owe and the bank consequently threatening to take the house. But if the zombie rhubarb can survive all the bullshit, I suppose I can too.
I’m not going to be outdone by rhubarb. I don’t even eat the stuff. If it can cling so tenaciously, though, the least I can do is put it in a better spot.
So onward and inward, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Let’s kick Friday in the teeth, my friends.