I fractured my penis driving the Zamboni. Before that, I smoked bedbugs on the roof of the rink with an Olympic figure skater. Before that, I somersaulted into a knoll of raccoon urine. Before that, Dad tied my rotting molar to the refrigerator handle and shattered a bottle of Tabasco against his forehead. Before that, my mother disowned me. Before that, I sat shaving my legs like floating dreams above the blue line where hockey players shouted prayers to toothless gods. Before that, my father broke my nose with his figure skate. Before that, the blades were sharpened by a naked ogre with a constellation of forehead craters, sparks bouncing between eyelashes and testicles with the majesty of fireflies on the moon. Before that, Dad picked me up by my tighty-whities and kicked my “pimpled ass” out of the house—his Nike Air Max burst one of the zits like a birthday balloon as I swaggered out the flying termite doorframe. Before that, I shed tears into the turquoise shower drain clogged by a magic carpet of Mom’s pubic hair. Before that, Dad stole my virginity in the linen closet and heaved his vodka bottle at the cockatiel cage. Before that, Grandma caught me making love to myself in the living room and her heart exploded. Before that, I pierced my nipples with a shish kabob skewer. Before that, Grandma called me a clown when she saw me dancing around the kitchen in her granny panties. Before that, we were at the circus watching drunken trapeze artists, esophaguses marinated with cotton candy and caramel popcorn. Before that, the bearded lady swallowed her sword. Before that, thunderstorms moaned our names, cumulonimbus engulfed the horizon, lightning squeezed our isolated confidences into squalid electricity. Before that, the heavens hissed jumbles of jigsaw rumbles. Before that, nightmares crumbled confetti lullabies.