I woke up taking an early-am pee, without remembering how I got there. Then suddenly I realized I wasn’t standing at the toilet. I was six feet away, pissing into the waste basket. At least this time it wasn’t the hamper.
I had assumed that these episodes of somnambulism would stop when I quit drinking. All these years I thought that the reason I occasionally woke up in strange places was the booze, but I haven’t touched a drop in months.
I fucking hate Mondays. I have flea bites all over my arms and legs from working in the yard. Fucking raccoons.