I went to school to be a pilot. Not just any school, but the world's leader in aviation. It's not just a phallic title, either; this school has been around since the beginning and the name alone will get you a job based on reputation and sneers from those who "had to work hard for where they are". As if graduating cum laude with a bachelors degree, 100k in loans, and getting a well-rounded view of what you're getting yourself into isn't as difficult as paying a couple thousand at mom-and-pops flying school to get your ratings and getting a job washing planes until your character lands you a spot in some corporate flying gig because some wealthy well-to-do has a "rags-to-riches" complex.
All of the stereotypes are true, by the way. Smooth-talking pilots who drink too much and have too much fun at work that they end up subconsciously destroying every normal social scene that ever comes to light. It just comes with the wings. Something about being so free and yet so responsible at the same time demands a higher order of professionalism... which in turn demands a higher order of counteraction, be it through scandalous activities, raucous nightlife, or taking on a billion hobbies that squeeze every last bit of energy from you that you are left with no other option than to get a good night's sleep from the 4 hours you leave yourself to hug the rack.
I'm of the last breed. Not exactly sure why. Maybe I should start at the beginning:
I grew up in a household of 5: my mother, my step-father, my older full-blood sister, and my younger half-blood sister. My parents divorced and remarried other people when I was 3 due to my father cheating on my mom, but I was too young to ever remember them together. My father and his wife had my two younger half-blood brothers. I would visit on the weekends to essentially hang out with my brothers and older sister while my dad worked and his wife drank. Don't worry, this is no pity-tale; she's a lush, an incapable drunk who would attempt to get a little too personal when she was actually up and moving as opposed to the normal passed out on the couch or in bed. Being in New England and of the destroy-stuff adolescent stage of life, my siblings and I were the epitome of the "get some fresh air" phrase. We'd wander around the woods breaking sticks on the trunks of trees, throwing rocks in lakes or the unlucky wildlife that would happen by (unsuccessfully, mind you), and generally being woodsmen.
Growing up was a pretty dynamic feat in itself; my mother started out as a receptionist/secretary for some law firm in Hartford, CT. She was fresh out of college with a business degree when she met my father. They fell in love and my mother had my older sister and me. Then the philandering happened and she met and married my step-father. When my little sister came around, my mother decided she needed a new venue, so we moved into a modest one-story ranch-style home with a basement in a quaint little neighborhood and she opened her own daycare. It was a genius plan: raise your own children with others in the neighborhood the same age and get paid to do it? Not a bad gig. She would drop us all off at school when the time came, and pick us up in the younger years, or let us all ride the bus home together and watch over each other. Meanwhile, she'd be at home with the younger generations and my sister, feeding, playing, teaching, and napping them. My step-father remodeled the basement so rather than look at pipes and supports, we could have carpet, wood panelling on the walls, and a second fully functioning bathroom.
The main stays of the daycare were moved downstairs and thats how life was for the first ten years of my life. My parents had a bedroom upstairs, my two sisters shared a room adjacent my parents, and I had my own room in the corner of the house. That was, until my older sister started hitting puberty and "needed her own space". I was moved in with my little sister, and my older sister got my room. Exciting. It lasted one school year until I told my parents I would make them a deal: If I could handle little kids playing in my stuff all day, I would move into the basement. My mother had been thinking of going back to school for a teaching degree in mathematics, so the eventual plan was to phase out the daycare in a year or two. I think I could manage the kids that long. My parents agreed because the next week I was in the solitude of the underground. Wood paneling had covered up the normal windows that would be in the basement, so when the upstairs door and the door to the back stairs and back yard were closed, you could perfectly simulate the pitch of night at any point during the day. It was heaven. I have never had trouble getting to sleep, save for one major incident which I will get into later.
This was all around middle school when my social life started expanding and life got interesting. I think this is enough for one day.
