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"You can't argue with results," my dad used to say—usually while he was teetering precariously between a ladder and a window, installing some homemade contraption that would have cost him $1.50 at Home Depot. But of course, he insisted on doing it himself. Sure, most of my dad's DIY projects worked, but only if you held one part, twisted another with your foot, and blew on the top for good measure. Sometimes it felt like our entire house would collapse if anyone turned a knob the wrong way.
For years, my brother and I slept in a bunk bed that my dad cobbled together from mismatched wood and pure optimism. It technically functioned, provided we didn't shift our weight too much or sneeze too hard. Our living room had shelves made from repurposed doors, and the kitchen cabinets? A carefully curated collection of wooden crates that somehow held together. We didn't think much of it at the time—it was just how things were. But looking back, I'm amazed the entire house didn't collapse like a game of Jenga played by a very reckless toddler.