Growing up, our kitchen was a battlefield. The signal to batten down the hatches? Dad’s lunch pail, landing with the force of righteous thunder on the chipped counter. That clanging thermos had more authority than the President. “This is my house,” he’d declare, chest out, sweat still fresh on his brow. “I pay the bills. I’m the boss.�

Let me tell you something—this Earth Angel, Master Magical Healer, sat down—tired. So tired I could’ve given myself an old-fashioned whooping for burning the midnight oil, making beats that’ll only drop when I say so. When you’re a lone wolf, you’ve got a lot of jobs—herding your own sheep, coaching your own hustle, even refereeing yo