I am now forty years old. That’s four and a zero. Another way of saying this is: I am now half-digested. Although I often find fault with myself, the truth is that I look pretty good for something half-digested, something halfway through the gullet of the world – though of course I may be shot out at any time. . .
Some people say that I am dissolute. I say that this is highly appropriate for one half-dissolved. Excessive self-regard is absurd at this stage. I don’t let that stop me.
I am in the process of being digested. Gradually I am broken down and dispersed. To tell the truth, it is a highly peculiar situation. Actually, I was never born. Not quite. The appearance was a ruse. I never emerged. Not for a moment have I been anything separate. Just the same I am falling apart quite nicely. Falling apart has proven to be something I can actually do, unlike riding a bicycle.
Ideally I would like to be nutritious. You’ll laugh, but -- actually I would like to be wholesome. At least fibrous. I would somehow like to compensate for all the waste my appearance has occasioned, from the first diaper to this morning’s milk carton. That is why I have such high literary ambitions. I aspire that my contribution to literature will be at least half as significant and enduring as the little white cups of creamer I dump into my coffee. I am a highly ambitious and indeed reckless person.