Yesterday was a good day for me, despite everything going wrong. For some reason I just kept smiling and didn’t lose my cool even when the idiots at Kinkos told me that my stuff wouldn’t be ready until this morning and I had to show them how to use their own printer. The names of the people I worked with were Chandri and Assafton. I was nice to them because obviously their parents had to choose between drowning them and giving them hideous names, which led to a lifetime of torture. If you choose a name for your child and it starts with “Ass”, there is cause for concern.

Even when someone at work changed their travel plans, thus moving my deadline up two days and didn’t bother telling me, I stayed as cool as the other side of the pillow. I don’t miss deadlines, and telling me I have done my job incorrectly or inadequately is a good way to get yourself skinned and eaten. I was driving around at night in the cold rain with my back window gone (I still haven’t fixed it), smiling my ass off. Life is good.

Most of the feedback I received from my last entry was positive, some neutral, and a few saying that I was wrong. To everyone looking to make a point about how horrible America is by regurgitating whatever crap your college professor told you, just be glad you live in a place where you can do that without being shot. I’m not going to start a debate here, because it would detract from the entertaining and carefree nature of my diary. So to everyone who disagrees with me, I’m right, and you suck. Let’s just agree on that.

Arguing on the internet is like competing in the Special Olympics.

Even if you win, you’re still retarded.

In other news, I feel it is time to admit to all of you who don’t know me that I am a bit of a closet nerd. Don’t start with the obvious comments about how it was readily apparent, because that would shatter the fragile façade that I have worked so hard to create, and my life would be empty and without meaning.

I have come to the conclusion that the age of the geek is in full bloom, and I now want to come out and proudly proclaim my geekhood. Now that you all have an image in your heads of me playing Dungeons and Dragons in my room full of Harry Potter posters, let me assure you that my passion is much worse. I love, and I mean LOVE, remote controlled airplanes. I think I own about ten of them. Having always been intrigued by flight, I started building flying things when I was about 8 or 9 years old. Little rubber band powered planes that would fly around in circles if I built them right. I still have a couple of them. As we grow, so do our toys. I design and fly these little electric planes anywhere I can. I built a replica of the 1903 Wright Brothers’ Wright Flyer, and fly it in the park to the delight of spectators who apparently all read from the same script.

“Did you build that?”

“How much did it Cost?”

“Where can I buy one”

All three of these questions are surprisingly difficult to answer. I built it over the course of three months from pictures I downloaded, plans I found, scrap balsa wood and silk paper. It cost about $7 for materials, $200 in electronics, and however much three months of your life is worth. You can buy this one, but it will be expensive.

Kids like to ask if they can fly it.

No.

I do want to build a gentle, rugged plane that I can let anyone fly, but right now I am obsessed with the idea of blinding speed.

Once in a while I get an idea for a plane that I am sure will revolutionize aviation, and I start drawing plans in my head. Soon I have a weird contraption with wires and tissue and balsa wood buzzing around in a state of semi-control and hitting everything in a fifty foot radius. I really get off on this stuff. I have had entire conversations about the advantages of Lithium polymer batteries, which speed controller has the best refresh rate, how many amps a certain prop will draw on a given brushless motor, et cetera. Nerd. I honestly see nerdly qualities as good qualities. There is a nerd in all of us. This is my call to action for everyone who gazes upon this page:

Find your inner dweeb.

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