It happened only days ago. I awoke in my Washington D.C. room, where I was living for the summer. The bags forming under my eyes would have sent even Jeff Van Gundy’s scouring in shame. I was completely drained from the onslaught of 65-hour work weeks. I felt like Christian Bale on the set of Terminator; any number of insignificant actions could have sent me headlong into a “Mike Tyson wants to eat your children” type moment.
