Half-Digested

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.

I am now forty years old.  (I am guessing this is now the intestines?)  The world is the solvent into which I am dissolving my body, this packet of nonsense.