My schedule for the past couple days:
Thursday: arrive Tampa around 1:30am on super-extra-massively delayed flights, arrive "home" at 2:30. Wake up at 4:10, log in and work until 12-ish, taking a nap from 8-9:15a.m. Run some errands and stuff, bad lunch at all-you-can-eat-salt-with-Chinese-food-flavouring with bro, then off to the airport at 3p.m. Go home at 4:30p.m, arrive home 19 miles away 103 minutes later thanks to super-extra-heavy traffic on the Courtney Campbell, Kennedy (60) and Dale Mabry. Utterly fail to arrive at camera shop before closing. Get ready for club.

Go to club at 9:15, play original Avalon Hill Football Strategy (ca. 1979), nap from 10:15-11:10 despite 129dB urban music with 140dB bass kicking. Tend bar until 3:30a.m., drive home.

Oops, already Friday. Log in to work, take nap from 7-9 a.m., finish work and leave for airport at 11:20, arrive 12:15, check out plane, ride, practice the crap I suck at. I got the feel for it back really fast this time, and a couple hours later picked up bro and his kid (almost destroying the plane when I came in to land at TPF). I let the kid fly and he had a blast.

Bro is calling everyone telling them how the kid was truly flying the plane all by himself with no help from me and herein lies the problem: do I let him hold onto this unrealistic fantasy or do I let him know that I had the plane under my control the whole time with the pedals and trim wheel, along with an occasional knucke under the yoke?

Bro complimented m on the flying, was well impressed and is now considering learning to fly himself. He's now bitching at me to hurry up so we can go to the club. I have to tend again tonight. No rest for the Really Evil.