Ah, yes, the "golden years" they promised! Turns out, "golden" might just refer to the color of my simmering rage. And the leisurely strolls? More like a hobble punctuated by involuntary noises of discomfort. Yelling at squirrels isn't an inexplicable urge; it's a public service announcement to those furry little menaces.

My body's rebellion tour is less Cirque du Soleil and more "Weekend at Bernie's," except Bernie is a collection of protesting joints. Sleep? It's a mythical creature I vaguely recall from a bygone era, replaced by nocturnal negotiations with my bladder and the insistent whispers of "things I should be worrying about." And the world? Don't even get me STARTED on the "newfangled nonsense." My internal monologue sounds like a broken record stuck on "Back in my day..."