There was that time we were totally wasted and got locked out of the apartment, and you went to the truck -- I thought you were going to get your cell phone, but you returned with an big old axe. I remember your strangely purposeful bloodshot eyes, but for some reason I wasn't afraid. And then you started swinging. Before I could say a word, you'd gouged a fist-sized hole in of the door. And managed to dent the frame a couple of times too; you weren't so accurate.

I still see those marks on the door, every day when I come home. God, I'm sick of them.