Most of the time, I'm amazed and dismayed at my age. I wonder how the fuck I ended up here when I'm still just a teenager inside, blah de blah de blah. Every so often, though, the fatuous clouds of stinkin thinkin part, vouchsafing me a fleeting vision of the truth: this is how long it took to get where I am. Period. And I love where I am. Oh, I'm not crazy about stiff joints and wearing glasses and surprising random farts, but they're all essential parts of where I am. We're not agglomerations of details, held together by the weakest of forces, which we can pick through like a colander of peas. We're the whole inseparable thing, in this moment, and it's perfect. And now the clouds thicken again, and I can go back to my despair at my physical deterioration. Poot.