LOU RASMUS

Holy shit, what did I do? I think, as I wipe the drool from my face. Sitting up and rubbing my head, I try to remember how exactly I got myself to bed, but I can’t figure it out. I can’t recall much of anything from last night besides falling when I first got to the bar. I was still sober at that point, too. I get up and shuffle down the hall. I gotta take a piss. “Fuck,” I curse as stub my toe on my phone. I must have thrown it on the ground last night when I got home. I pick it up. God dammit, I think, when I see that I called Her five times last night between three and four a.m. I try to think of what I said, but I still can’t remember anything besides tripping on the curb on the way into the bar. I put my phone on the charger. Then I get to the toilet. I still have to piss. But the rim of thing is covered in dried vomit. Fucking hell. I piss anyway, and I tell myself that I’ll clean it up later, even though I know that it may be days before I get around to it. Whatever. And then I see my face. Is that my face? I can’t be sure. It doesn’t look like me. Well, at least not in the way that I remember myself looking. This face in the mirror is too saggy to be mine. Too sad to be mine. Or is it? I guess I don’t know how I’m supposed to look anymore. So this must be it. This sad, saggy face must be mine, with these bags hanging hopelessly beneath my eyes, and my cheeks being dragged down by the hands of Lucifer himself. It doesn’t look like me. Or it doesn’t look how I want myself to look. But it is me.