When I first came to America, my heart was full of immigrant excitement, my lungs inflated by American dreams and my blood saturated with Russian radiation poisoning. However, I quickly learned that America was no land of milk and honey. I was surrounded by low-paying jobs, bloodthirsty criminals, and people speaking a language I could not understand. I was forced to support myself through the subsistence-farming methods of my forefathers, living off of carrots that I grew in sidewalk cracks. It was a difficult life, and I grew bitter and resentful. I took to wandering the streets, begging for spare change and cilantro to garnish my carrots. My only solace was the novel I worked on each night. This is its second chapter.
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