I don’t play games. I fly — and somehow my joystick just auto-converted my rage into afterburner fuel. When the altimeter hits 32 seconds? That’s not luck. That’s my INTJ brain doing yoga mid-turbulence. You won’t find glory in trophies… you find it when your finger hovers over ‘Cash Out’… but you’re too busy gliding to click it. My community doesn’t shout — they just stare silently at their screens like monks meditating on RNG code. True mastery? It’s not cash extraction. It’s the quiet confidence of knowing when NOT to press anything.

You don’t need to be a pilot to fly an F-16—you just need to have read this like it’s coded in blood (and coffee). Cloud-chasing wealth? Nah. It’s about trimming your descent at 97% RTP while your grandpa whispers ‘Real flight doesn’t roar—it hums.’ I simulated my first turn at MIT… and somehow it still crashed into the leaderboard. Send me your last boost—or just buy me a Gif of this plane doing barrel rolls on a spreadsheet.