by Jon Farrow
I’m sitting across from my Dad at his dining room table. It’s a cheap knock off table. The kind made to look like wood. My Dad sipping on his fifth or sixth beer. At this point, I’ve lost count. I had just explained to him all the things I’ve done to survive to reach this moment. I sit there staring into his glassy bloodshot eyes. A small look of disgust resting on his face. He says to me, “Why did you do all of that?” The only reply I had to give was, “I didn’t have a … Read more...