Hello there, you wild beasts of the night (and day) – apologies for the ghastly gap in our saga; the world’s been spinning on a dime, and I’ve been running along its edge, trying not to fall off into the abyss of the ridiculous. It’s been a mad dash, so much so that my liquor cabinet has started to gather dust, a cardinal sin in my universe. This is an intolerable state of affairs; as a scribe caught in the whirlwind of chaos, sobriety is akin to walking naked into a blizzard.

Once upon a time, under the cloak of night, I’d hammer away at the keys, unleashing torrents of words to drown out the cacophony of what we’ve affectionately termed Clown World. It was cathartic, a ritualistic cleansing from the filth and folly of daylight hours. Yet, here we stand, at the precipice where speaking truths, or what masquerades as truth, is a tightrope walk over a canyon filled with dynamite. The game has changed – it’s no longer just about splattering ink on paper but dodging bullets while you do it. Writing, for those of us deranged enough to stick with it, has morphed into a grotesque triathlon where one partakes in blood sports by day, indulges in avant-garde performance art by twilight, and executes counterterrorism operations under the cover of night.

But hell, retreat is for the feeble-hearted, and I’ve never been one to back down from a good fight or a bad decision. In the spirit of refusing to go gently into that good night, I’ve added a purple belt to my collection this week – a testament, perhaps, to my enduring penchant for masochism and my relentless pursuit of… whatever the hell it is we’re all pursuing.

Strap in, dear readers, as we plunge headfirst back into the fray, armed with nothing but a typewriter, a bottle, and a disdain for the insipid. The world may be a circus, but we’ve got front-row seats and an all-access pass to the madness. Here’s to the ride – may it be fraught with danger, drenched in absurdity, and, above all, never boring.

N.P.: “Check Yo Self (from The Predator)” – Ice Cube