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When the years have reduced me to a wretched state, I will not venture outside my house. My pride may be false, but it's real!
I will remain in my cool room, write stories, take sedatives, sip on a Merlot and sometimes venture onto the balcony to bask in the morning sun like a turtle on a log until I pass into blackness and nothingness. (I oftentimes hear foolish talk about our energy zipping throughout the universe, but I would argue that a loud, smelly fart has more substance than my spirit.)"Everything is fine," I tell myself. "No complaints. I finished the column."
Much like sex, a completed column brings temporary satisfaction. But there is no rest. In less than 24 hours that insatiable drive will be making its demands. I have no regrets, despite the many drawbacks of being myself. If I am conscious in the next stage, I will savor my memories of my transitory duration as a human being.
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