A hardy handshake, greeted me, as soon as I walked into the living room.

I had spent years try to root around and dig myself out of the massive black hole that had swallowed my existence.

I grow. Only Because I know the taste of silence. Forced to pick my poison, I washed it down with spirited water.

Bourbon and branch, and working my fingers to the bone. Till my labors were finally flowering. And bore fruit.

The top three reasons my dad has a smile plastered on his face at the moment…

Stories of this fruit:

A seed fund.

A gold digging hoe.

And David Spade.