About 30 minutes after Super Bowl XLVI ended - a full half hour after Tom Brady's last-second Hail Mary fell innocuously to the Indianapolis turf - one of my roommates breached the implicit quarantine of my room, which had been in effect all night. He cautiously cracked open my door and stealthily snapped a picture.
While the resulting photograph almost certainly was not going to win me any glamour contests, it perfectly encapsulated that moment in my life.
I'm sitting on the floor - as I was for the entirety of the fourth quarter - with my legs crossed tightly together like two lovers who refuse to loosen their grip on one another. My left hand is tenderly clutching a fifth of vodka. Although it had long been empty, the compassion it showed me throughout the game made it impossible to put
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