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To me, back then, this was living large.
Of course, it wasn’t. But at twenty, I thought I was sitting pretty.

I’d pull up to my apartment in my 2000 Cadillac STS—24” Giovanni rims catching the last of the Kentucky sun, a 15” drop-down TV hanging from the ceiling like some futuristic spaceship screen. Just sitting there. Engine humming. Smoke from a blunt curling slow out the window.

Sometimes I’d catch myself staring at the faded paint on the building, or watching the way the rims caught the light, like they were flashing some kind of Morse code. Lying to me saying you made it.

The car, the rims, the toys—they never truly mattered to me. I wasn’t a flashy guy at heart. But still, I played the part. Hood shit. Armor for the ego. A costume for the role of a man who wanted to look like he was “making it,” even if the script underneath was thin.

And always—always—there was the itch. That gnawing whisper telling me Kentucky was just a holding pen. Los Angeles was the real prize. The escape. The bigger stage. I didn’t know what the play would be, but I knew it wasn’t here.

When I finally climbed out of that Cadillac, the air felt lighter—like my wallet was helium and my ego was floating six inches above the ground.

Inside, my little kingdom was waiting for me. A big-screen TV sitting directly on the floor, a white velvet couch staring it down like the two cowboys in a duel. In the middle, a super contemporary rug—one of those loud, try-hard designs that looked high-class back then.

In the corner, by the kitchen, a tall bar-style table with two red leather stools. That’s where I’d eat sometimes, TV on, soaking in the feel of my own space.

And then, there was that beautiful glow.
Faint but unmistakable.

The hum of two 1,000-watt metal halide lights, blue-white radiance leaking out from under the grow room door. The sound was steady, low, comforting—like the heartbeat of the place. Inside, the plants stood tall and proud, blissed out under their artificial sun.

Next to the grow room, my bedroom. Basic, no frills. Just a crash pad, a decompression chamber. But even there, the glow seeped in, reminding me that I was building something—something alive.

The hustle had become my education. Better than any school could’ve taught me.
It was survival school.
Negotiation school.
Human nature school.

It taught me how to size people up without words. How to take a loss and keep moving. How to smell greed before it knocked at your door.

I never thought of what I did as wrong. I wasn’t hurting people. I wasn’t kicking in doors or putting guns in faces. And if someone screwed me over, I didn’t go all revenge movie about it. I figured life would handle that for me.

Not that the thought never crossed my mind.

There was this one guy—Matt. Worked with me, seemed solid. Then one day he burned me for $3,000. When I saw him not long after, he looked me dead in the eye and justified it—like stealing from me was some karmic balancing act in his head.

I didn’t lose my cool. Didn’t chase him down. Just stepped back and let the current take him where it would.

And sure enough, it did. He lost love. Money gone. Self-gone. I don’t know if he ever found his way back. I hope he did. Truth is, I don’t wish ruin on anyone.

But me?
I was still standing. Still stacking. Still blessed.

Something inside me was shifting, though. The more I looked around, the more I realized money was just a mirror—it reflected whatever state you were already in.

And I wanted more than just the reflection of a kid who could stack cash and buy toys.

Los Angeles was still out there, shimmering in the distance like a mirage. Not just a place, but a possibility.

The money was good. But good wasn’t enough to fulfill the soul. I was looking for a lifestyle, not so money riches.

I needed real. I needed lasting.

And I started to see it—clear as a blunt cherry in the dark. The hustle wasn’t the destination. It was a chapter. A proving ground.

But the thing about the hustle is—it sticks to you. Gets in your blood.
And whether it’s money, weed, or the next big move—
addiction comes in all kinds of flavors.