You ever just feel like your own body is staging a hostile takeover? Like, you've been driving this thing, this meat suit, for fifty-one years, and suddenly it decides it's gonna throw a curveball. That's kinda where I'm at. I'm a bus driver, right? Long routes, gotta be focused. You got parents getting older, gotta keep things together, kids are grown but they still need... stuff. So you're just on autopilot, doing the thing. Then BAM. Like someone just flipped a switch for the Sahara Desert in my chest. It's these flashes. Like, out of nowhere. One minute you're just driving along, thinking about the next stop, maybe what's for dinner, and the next you're absolutely DRENCHED. Sweat just pouring. Feels like my face is gonna melt right off. And it's not like you can just pull over and take a breather. Got a schedule to keep, got people relying on you. You try to play it cool, wipe your brow with your sleeve when no one's looking, crank the AC to arctic levels even though it's barely fall. But inside, you're just like, what the HELL is going on? It's embarrassing, frankly. You just kinda expect your body to... perform. Like a good employee, you know? You put in the time, you do the work, you expect a certain level of reliability. And then it just starts glitching. You worry about what people see. Do they notice? Does it look like I'm having some kind of episode? You try to keep a poker face, act like everything's fine, but it takes SO MUCH out of you. Just trying to maintain that outward appearance of competence. And then you get home, and you're just wiped. Not even from the driving. From the internal battle. It’s a lot.