I grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and smashed it onto my head. The scalp was begging for some hard massage. The carton box flung as I punched it, hoping to drill a hole through and through. Two thuds from my left and right foot rung the entire second floor. There was no shadow in the room; early afternoon shadowboxing with the plywood door. I wanted to hit myself in the mirror – right in the kisser.