I stare at the box. The box stares at me. The box doesn't have eyes. That makes the box's stare even scarier. A lone bead of sweat runs down my forehead. A lone bead of sweat doesn't run down the box. I try to engage the box in masculine banter. The box does not respond to my novice trash talk. I step towards the box. The box doesn't step towards me. I narrow my eyes at this display of cocky confidence. I let out a wild war cry and charge. I leap high into the air (I'm talking like, at least 40cm here) and deal the box a crushing belly slam. My belly caves in. I throw up explosively. The box gives no shits. Because a box has no rectum. Obviously. I curl up on my side and spasm uncontrollably. The box looks at me in scorn. The box still has no eyes. This makes my humiliation worse. I realise I will never be able to defeat the box and conquer it's contents. I pass out in a pool of my own vomit. I regain consciousness and find the box exactly where it was before. Because boxes don't move. Obviously. I glare at the box in rage. I stand up weakly. I realise. The box has been open all along. I feel slightly embarrassed. The box laughs at me snidely. I cry.