I’m not a famous rock star. I just look like one.

I was stopped dead in my tracks this morning when a glance into the bathroom mirror at my mini-vacation refuge returned this:

The face looking back wasn't Pete Doherty. Or the malnourishment and ravages of drug addiction. Or even the pasty complexion, even though another year in the gray Pacific Northwest weather will leave me looking like I'm from across the pond.

Looking back were the thick sunken dark circles. I'd like to attribute them to heroin addiction. Alas, that would be lying.

I've blogged on the matter previous but it can withstand iteration: I was born with these. Through my life, folks from the closest to complete strangers have commented on them, expressing concern about absence of sleep or extreme fatigue. Even when I'm perfectly rested and fine.

Once a cosmetics-counter lady pursued hotly touting concealer.

And I don't wear makeup. Was not shopping for it. I was on my way to tools and hardware.

Friends come to recognize the difference between normal dark and dark deserving of comment — which is how it should be. Myself, I see none of it until extreme exhaustion and fatigue, bearing a burden, insomnia or efforts to remain afloat in an undertow draw the color from my skin and paint circles black.

I saw them this morning and I wanted to weep.

No good comes of lving under the thumb and control of a roommate. Unless one has a heroin addiction to soften the blows. An appealing option about now.

No good comes of being Petra Doherty. Even if it is just around the eyes.

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