The Morning After

Oh, hey guys. Just happened to stumble across this pic of me after a one-night stand with a guy, two midgets and a Black & Decker power drill. Not bad, right?

Much to my chagrin, I do NOT look like this after a night of hard drinkin' and hard shaggin'. By 6:47 AM my mascara and eyeliner have cut a wide swath from my eyelids to both pillows and sheets, the MAC matte Ruby Woo red lipstick that made my lips pout just so has now left a Ragu-spaghetti sauce ring around my mouth and nose, my hair looks like a suitable nesting place for a family of field mice, and my breath could kill small animals and children within a 3-mile radius. If I miraculously make it to a bathroom mirror before the screw-fest and I can see less than 5 of me, I may be able to wipe some of it off. But see, I can't take it all off, because when I wash my face I look like a ghastly version of Aunt Edith, may she rest in peace. And you didn't take home Aunt Edith.

I do have a girlfriend who will have sex, pretend to fall asleep, get up, REAPPLY her makeup, and then go back to bed. That's just insane. It takes 3 hours for me to put my face on once a night. If I had to do it more then I might as well enroll in clown school.

You know the solution to this, don't you. It makes perfect sense: DON'T STAY OVER.
And yet, over and over, as I awake to a ray of blinding sunlight in my blood-shot eyeball and the glass-chewing chatter of a morning radio DJ, I think, ah fuck. I did it again. Let the Walk of Shame begin.