What up blood! What up cuz! What up Gaaaaangstas (Turn this up)!!!  They say I walk around like I got an ‘S’ on my chest. Nah, that’s a keyboard and a cashmere sweater vest on my chest. Greetings! Tis I, Tehol Beddict, internet-thug extraordinaire, returning to you from a much needed creative sabbatical. I can’t truly explain my absence last week. Yes, I was experiencing the kind of migraine headaches I imagine  Christian Slater receiving when he thinks about his career path, for a couple days, but there was something more, something deeper. The creative juices simply weren’t flowing, as I felt like Macaulay Culkin after he made Getting Even With Dad. Where do I go from here? Have I peaked? Do I have anything left to give this world? Has Domonic Brown soul f*cked me to the point there’s nothing left of me but a dried up, useless corpse? My chicken, the normally loving and playful Beatrice, that you see pictured, wouldn’t even look me in eye! The Elder Gods, whom have guided me to countless fantasy championships, had seemingly abandoned me. As I laid naked, curled up in a ball on my polar bear rug, bawling my eyes out, all seemed lost.

Please, blog, may I have some more?