You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?

I don’t think I’ll ever write an autobiography. Frankly, I’ve got better, more pressing things to do. But if someone held a gun to my head and forced me to pen one, I’d probably start with this: “This is the story of someone who’s survived decades on this wild planet. Any resemblance to your own life? That’s entirely intentional.”

Life, you see, has a twisted sense of humor. It delights in tossing curveballs your way, often at the worst possible moments. Just when you think everything’s cruising along smoothly, bamhere comes a sneaky health hiccup lurking around the corner. Ignore that nagging ache in some corner of your body, and a week later, it’s back with reinforcements, staging a full-scale takeover that makes your days miserable.

My solution? Stay busy. Not with grand delusions of saving the world, but with the quieter, more selfish task of saving myselfmy life, my health. That’s what works for me. And honestly, in the thick of this survival game, I doubt I’d find the time to write an autobiography. Who’d read it anyway? Most people are too busy navigating their own stormy seas to care about mine.