Hi everyone; my name's Ace, and I'm taking this course as part of a 17 unit semester ending (with any luck) my two-year stint here at DVC. Having done my time in unswerving observance of all academic and cultural expectations placed upon me, I'm faithful that I go now to a better place, where the weather and women are never cold, the beer is never warm, and CS degrees grow about eye-level on verdant boughs, succulent and waiting to be picked. That failing, I'm fairly sure I go at least to a land of larger class-sizes and steeper tuition.
At any rate, it won't be my first time to a four-year college (hence the cynacism). Like our classmate Mike, I got out of high school in the late 90s, hitting college the first time and sliding off it like a mouse in a mixing bowl. Propitious timing, however, allowed me to save at least a little face for my failings as I arrived in the corporate sector around the giddy height of the self-suppressed dot com rebellion. Since then, I've moved around a lot both in and out of work; fallen hopelessly in love once, helplessly out of it a couple times, made a lot of friends and one or two enemies, fixed and scrapped numerous cars, found direction in life briefly before mislaying it again, and been fired/down-sized/let go from more jobs than I have fingers to count. 
It hasn't all been fun, in truth very little of it has, but it's been one hell of an education, and I figure that at least entitles me to some kind of diploma. It's about time I got something in writing.

Anyway, I'm currently struggling through the book assignment for this class, so there's no real reason to prolong the role of bombastic jack-ass. It should suffice to say that I'm 25, have dull grey eyes, like long walks on the beach, candle-lit dinners, axle-grease, and alcohol. I wrote a lot of screen-plays as a kid, but dropped english in preference of C shortly thereafter when it became obvious that my soul could go a lot longer without food than my stomach. Favorite short-story authors would have to be John Steinbeck and Raymond Chandler to name two off the top of my head. Beryl Markham's autobiography "West with the Night" is hands-down my favorite book. I also really enjoyed the first chapter of Niel Stephenson's pulpy novel "Snow Crash", but the magic fell away steeply thereafter.