My Star Wars?
I choose…

The Force. A brown bath robe. A life of contemplative solitude. Choose a laser sword, choose bleeping robots, airspeeders, stolen data tapes and tractor beam controls. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and being a mentor to the son of the guy you left limbless and slowly cooking on the side of a lava lake. Choose a stupid rat tail mullet for the peak years of your career. Choose a hovel, Choose your friends. Choose mind tricks and matching lies. Choose a trip to Alderaan for almost the price of starship. Choose a rubbish alias and wondering if you ever owned a droid and where you put that lightsaber you pinched off that friend you left for dead. Choose sitting on that commode chair watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing senate and council meetings, stuffing jawa juice down your neck. Choose fading away at the end of it all, pishing your last as a ghost in a swamp, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, freak faced, big eared gnome-thing written into the sequel to replace yourself.