Name’s McGregor.
I’m a platypus — yeah, the real deal — and life didn’t exactly deal me a winning hand.
Family ditched me when I was just a beak-sized boy. Grew up alone, lost, and angry, sinking deep into all the wrong things: pills, powder, anything to feel less like a mistake of nature.

I was just another stray platypus until one rainy day, I stumbled into a library and onto a beaten-up computer running Counter Strike.
First click, first kill — I was hooked.
For the first time, my weird webbed hands, my sharp eyes, my stubborn platypus brain actually meant something.

I clawed my way clean, got good, real good.
When gaming didn’t pay the bills, I bought a Scania truck and hit the road, hauling freight across the country, laptop always close by.
Even later, when I moved to Ireland to taste beer for a living, I kept playing.
Still do.
Late nights, a Guinness in one hand, mouse in the other — McGregor the platypus, still fighting, still laughing, still alive.