It began like every other Michigan Tuesday. Wake up. And immediately struggle to shake off the hangover.   Down some coffee. Rub bloodshot eyes into hesitant focus. Get human again behind the twin hits of caffeine and tobacco. Shuffle across the constriction of a boulevard apartment seeking more nourishing stimulation. Because something had to get the sludge moving again. Force a cold body into a hot shower. Just to feel a different sensation. And to steam an uncooperative body back into adult movement. That aging, fragile meat bag still yelping internally from the abuses absorbed the night before.   Even a brain left pickled from the unanticipated liquid poisoning could still comprehend that it was probably the closest to a baptismal that the attached Mittened maniac will ever …

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