It all started on a cool, damp winter evening in West Michigan. As I stood guard out front of my mid 1970's house, the crisp air freshened my lungs between long, dramatic drags off of my harsh camel filter 99. After wishing my dear camel a farewell, I made my way through the garage, littered with tools, beer cans, and despair. Swaggering through the garage, clad in nothing more than my cotton bath robe, I came to an abrupt halt as I smashed my knee upon the baby-blue, cold, steel surface of my 1967 Buick Special. I continued on my quest with complete disregard for the throbbing, sharp discomfort spreading along my leg. As I grip the slick surface of the doorknob, I produced one smooth, fluent motion, swinging the door wide open. The warm atmosphere, smelling of a rank, depression-inducing odor nearly put me on my back. The firm tile was a comforting transition from the rough pavement. I was met with surprise as the fridge door sat ajar. My goal was in sight; only to be met with yet another challenge. As I open the fridge door, the over-priced pepperoni pizza attempted an elaborate escape, only to be caught between my big and longest toe. I fastened the pesky-pastry to the lower shelf, applying the secure gravitational force of a tub of cookie dough. Alas! I gripped my Dr. Pepper, wrenched off the cap, and took one glorious, thirst-quenching chug.