My crib wasn't exactly featured in Better Homes and Gardens. More like Condemned Homes and Questionable Gardens. We're talking walls so thin, I could hear Mrs. Jenkins next door arguing with her cat, Mr. Whiskers, about who ate the last of the tuna. Again. Our ceiling fan spun slower than a snail on tranquilizers, practically narrating the dust bunnies' epic journey across the ceiling. But hey, it was home. Mostly. Except when Mama's "medicine" ran low, then it transformed into a war zone where furniture rearranged itself and voices escalated faster than the rent.

Mama, bless her heart, was a high functioning? let's just say she had a colorful relationship with pharmaceuticals. She could sling burgers and fries at the Double D's Diner faster than you could say "super-size me," all while simultaneously negotiating bulk discounts on? well, let's just say "art supplies." She was a master multitasker. And a master of hiding stuff. I swear, she could stash contraband in places that would make Houdini look like an amateur magician. My childhood was basically one long scavenger hunt, except instead of Easter eggs, I was searching for? "Mama's special blend." Sometimes it smelled like skunk's perfume (that was "Auntie Carol's aromatherapy"), sometimes it had a chemical tang that could knock your socks off (that was "Mama's study aid," apparently).

Now, my family? Honey, we were a sitcom waiting to happen. A dramedy. A reality TV show with slightly less Botox and way more drama. We were a Tyler Perry movie, but funnier, and with way more questionable life choices. We had aunties who could read your future in the coffee grounds (and your bank account just by looking at you), uncles who disappeared more often than socks in the dryer (turns out, some of them had a real talent for "extended vacations"), and cousins who were already dropping mixtapes in the third grade (mostly about the joys of skipping homework and the artistic merits of graffiti).

Growing up in the "ghetto fabulous" part of town meant life was always? an experience. Loud. Chaotic. A little bit sticky (from the grape soda, mostly). There was the ever-present aroma of fried chicken and? other things. Let's just say the air had a certain je ne sais quoi. Sometimes it smelled like Auntie Carol's "special" incense (which smelled suspiciously like freedom), other times it was a bit more? industrial. Like the time Uncle James tried to brew his own "cough syrup" in the bathtub. That was a memorable week. And then there was the occasional whiff of Mama's "stress reliever" (which, let's be real, was probably the only thing keeping her sane). And don't even get me started on the parties. Let's just say, the grown-ups knew how to celebrate. There was always music, dancing, and enough "juice" to float a small boat. And by "juice," I mean whatever Uncle Jimmy could get his hands on. Sometimes it was good ol' grape soda, sometimes it was something that came in a plastic jug and tasted vaguely of regret.

But through all the chaos, the questionable smells, and the occasional visit from the police (usually just to say "hi," of course), there was love. A messy, chaotic, slightly dysfunctional kind of love, but love, nonetheless. And that, darlings, is where our story truly begins?