When I was 9, the cub scouts had their annual pinewood derby. Scouts are given a block of wood to whittle into a car shape, which is then sent down an inclined track with 7 other cars at a time. The winners of the tournament get trophies. I worked on my car by myself, and had no idea what I was in for when I took my car to race night. Father/son teams work on these pinewood cars, investing as much as modern F1 teams in trick parts, like graphite dusted axles, and balanced lead weights. My beautiful(to me) car looked like a brick compared to the sleek, streamlined jobs these other kids had.

I came in 17th out of 25. I couldn't put my finger on why I felt so pissed at the pinewood derby. It could have been that I was a sore loser, but it went deeper than that. I think it boils down to the fact that the scouts' parents were more excited and involved in the process than the kids. I spent a lot of time doing what I could with a knife and wood, while other kids' dads took over. At the derby, most of us just goofed around while the dads paid attention to which track lanes were fastest, and whose car to watch out for.

And then they made the mistake of giving me an blank booklet as a consolation prize. I started writing what I thought about the pinewood derby, showing it to friends, and laughing at what I had written. About 30 minutes later, the Scoutmaster called for us to bring our booklets into the center table for a raffle. As I handed my booklet in, I didn't even think about what I'd written. Damn my luck, the first booklet pulled was mine! I'd won a T-shirt, but I didn't really care about that, because the scoutmaster opened up the booklet, paused for a moment and walked over to my parents.

I'd written "Pinewood Derby is Fucky" in the booklet.

Stifling laughter, and doing their best to put on stern faces my parents took me home early. The next day, they had settled on my ultimate punishment. "if you want to write bad words," my mom said, "you can write bad words." She put a pencil and paper in front of me. At the top of the sheet was handwritten, "This Fucking Shit Pisses Me Off."

I was grounded until I copied that phrase 100 times.

I never thanked my mom for teaching me the proper way to use obscenities.

Im engaged. It's awesome.

Estimating the passage of time without a clock, learning how to play musical instruments, learning stuff outside of academia.

musical instruments, NPR, hearing, internet, potatoes, and a manual transmission.

Still named Todd.

I also like live music.

-You are a robot

-You should also message me if you're not a robot.

I think that covers the bases.