"You dirty boy. That's why I like you."

Day 64

64 days in hell. A nice one.

My father, I find, has never really taught me anything useful in my entire life. Except putting that idea in my head of owning my own bakery shop in Bergen, Norway.

This is not an abhorrent slight against him in any shape or form. In fact, much like the rest of our family members, we find him quite lovable. He offsets this by trying to be extremely cool almost all the time, but it never works. When you see him sitting on that couch, you just want to give him a hug.

He's tried to give me advice on several occasions, but to no avail. For example, he's tried to tell me to quit smoking half-heartedly. That's because he smokes a pack a day himself.

But one thing he did tell me when I was younger:

"You should try to be a pilot, you know. You like this stuff so much, why not go to flight school?"

I was sixteen then. Should have taken his advice much sooner, as I found myself competing against kids six years junior of me in my current interviews. The chief pilot tells me straight up, "you know, your age is quite a detriment to your chances." The good thing is, at least he didn't put "among other things" as the subtext behind that sentence.

Yet one more gray hair sprouts from my lilliputian head. Actually, it's quite a big head, but my brain feels a slight bit shrunk these days.

Happier times, though, I had a great sojourn at the bar on Saturday. But that's a story that I will tell on another day. Because if I screwed this one up, at least I'm not accountable to the masses...