Hello, the Internet. My name is Howard Glassman. I am fifty-eight years old, soon to be fifty-nine, and I am going to digest the compleat works of Neil Gaiman. By "compleat works," I mean "everything the man has ever published, be it comics, essays, poetry, or prose." By "digest," I mean "pass through my alimentary canal." I will start eating tomorrow morning at breakfast, with Coraline.
I imagine you're wondering why. Then again, maybe you aren't. I'm not the kind of man people wonder about. My life is, as a rule, devoid of the remarkable. I have a job like other jobs, and a house like other houses. I have a boat under a tarp in my garage. I drive a gray car, wear gray suits, et cetera, et cetera.
And now, I'm devouring Neil Gaiman. I don't know what I hope to gain by eating these volumes. Possibly indigestion. It would be something different, at least. My constitution has always been dismayingly robust. Certainly, I don't expect to absorb magical powers, or have mystical visions, or even get a visit from the Sandman. Though, depending on the composition of the ink, it's possible I could experience all of the above. (Joke!)
I don't know if this is safe. Maybe I'll get an ulcer, or even die. But I don't think so. I think it'll be all right. I haven't had a stomach bug since 1992. I feel I can digest nearly anything. Besides, what's in a book, when you get right down to it? Wood fiber, ink, maybe a little cotton or laminate in the bindings? I saw a man on TV who had eaten, among other things, a small aircraft. If he can chow down on thousands of pounds of metal and machine oil, I can handle a stack of paper.
Tonight, for my last paper-free meal, I will be having two poached eggs, two slices of bacon, and a braised fillet steak with red wine sauce. For dessert, there'll be frozen cheesecake, cherry.
And tomorrow, Neil Gaiman.
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