I died. I’m dead by 40.
Life is good, in the way that air, food and water are good;
not in the way that sex, money and booze are good.
[Though most agree booze is a drug, I say “booze” instead of “drugs” because I don’t do the other stuff.]
I was not high on oxygen, nor a glutton, nor a shark;
but I lived and therefore I was good.
[I am close to turning 33 when I wrote this.]
As with most people,
there were more things I didn’t than things I did.
Many of the things I did were things other people also did.
This fact did not measurably affect my thinking,
and I died anyway.
I died anyway, dead as a doorknob
which fell off and killed a dormouse.
The only instruction I left was to dress my corpse as you would any other, with the lone distinction of a scarab beetle tattooed upon my face. “Go ahead and use shiny metallic ink,” I said, “regardless of its potential side-effects. I’m dead anyway.”
[I died of side-effects, by the way, though I couldn’t have known I would when declaring this sole posthumous proviso.]
My only regret is not spending more time composing and editing my greatest work, Terminado.