Today is a pretty important day. It was August 15th, 2007, when I was told I likely had "three to six months of good health left." Today is six months from that day. Just to prove I'm still alive, here I am, holding today's New York Times! I rode my bike today; the cumulative effects of the chemotherapy are hurting my stamina some, but I bet I can still run a quarter mile faster than most Americans. The doctors weren't wrong; they always said that if the palliative chemo worked, I'd buy more time, but that it was a long shot. And the doctors have done a brilliant job of tweaking my regimen to help my odds. How much longer this will work is hard to know, but I'm going to keep having fun every day I have left, no matter how many or how few of them I get.

In 2006, I went fishing for red snapper in the Gulf of Mexico. On the way back, one of the engines caught fire and then we had one engine for 70 miles. Slowly but surely, we got to Baton Rouge in the darkness but then got very close to a very large passing ship – they didn’t see us and we didn’t see them.

About five years ago, a half-tonne tree branch fell and missed me by three feet.

Before transitioning, I had a severe eating disorder. The doctor said, “Your body’s shutting down and if you don’t improve your mental and physical wellbeing, you’ll die.” Shortly after that, I started transitioning medically and my eating disorder resolved.

I really wanted a role in Harry Potter and I never got one.

I get a lot of abuse online because of my opposition to the assault on Gaza. The abuse is horrific, but I’ve learned to ignore it. The integrity of how you live your life is more important than what strangers think.

I talk too much.

Impulsive, enthusiastic, determined.

I vowed never to marry, but we got married as soon as we could after lockdown. I used to think it was patriarchal but when same-sex marriage became legal, I thought: OK, great, this institution has finally changed.

Not being able to run.