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.�

There’s Nothing More Left to DoBy Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer They say, “Why would God favor him or her and not me?”Well—I say, have you checked your behavior?Did you light candles and chant names with bad intentions? Then come home, take your mask off, and melt down in private like the weight of your own contradictions jus

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