Greetings, occasional hecklers.
It has been a veritable age since my last address, so vast that civilizations have likely risen, peaked, and crumbled into dust while you awaited my return. I come before you today to confirm that I, in fact, have not been abducted by a cabal of Victorian ghosts, nor have I been sold into a traveling circus—though, given the current state of my affairs, the circus might offer more job security.
The truth of my absence is far more ghastly: it is Exam Season. I stand before you a broken shell of a person, knees knocking together like a pair of frantic castanets as the specter of academia looms over me with a sharpened scythe. Yet, by some divine, I remain among the living—a state of being that is, frankly, quite surprising.
In more auspicious news, my feline familiar has achieved the grand milestone of a tenth birthday. She remains radiant and powerful, unlike her owner, who currently possesses the structural integrity of a wet paper towel.
Regarding the work of fiction I have promised: I recently attempted to organize my notes, only to realize I have committed a hubris so great that even Icarus would tell me to "tone it down." I have, quite literally, attempted to step further than the physical length of my own legs. I am currently splayed on the floor in a puddle of my own ambition, staring at a plot that is surely sentient.
As for the mundane details of my existence: I have recently consumed the "OHSHC" experience. It was… unique. Yet, it failed to dethrone my eternal, blackened passion for the Japanese animation "Deadly Diary." Furthermore, I must report a crime of the highest order: Netflix has purged Paprika and Akira from my reach. I am now forced to do battle with the user interface of Crunchyroll, a platform that clearly loathes me and wishes for my ultimate downfall.
I have no further proclamations. Go now, and remember: one is never too close to the cold embrace of a grave to enjoy a glass of chocolate milk.
