There's a grilled cheese sandwich on the sidewalk outside, perfectly square, without crusts, smashed into the pavement. Two steps away, in the street, a few shreds of a can of Steel Reserve have been pinned into the asphalt.

The last time I drank Steel Reserve, things got ugly. I was somehow enticed (or convinced myself) into a canvas laundry bin on a deck at a sixteen-room cabin. Naturally, people took the opportunity to launch the laundry bin off the deck. I ended up with glass in my hand. Later that night, I took a pair of fireplace tongs and attempted to tear an animal pelt from the wall, which I had likewise convinced myself was the flayed skin of Stevie Nicks.

Now, I'm just sunburned.