Dear Mr. President,I’ve had you on my mind lately, what with the kerfuffle over drones. I thought I’d write you a little note.In sixth grade I punched Russell Burgess in the mouth. He never saw it coming. Well, I mean, he saw it coming in the sense that he saw my fist coming toward his face. But he didn’t know I was going to do it.Russell was an easy kid to dislike. He wasn’t necessarily mean; he was just always there, underfoot, at the wrong time, desperately seeking affirmation from prepubescent suburbanites who were socially and biologically engineered to sniff out neediness for the purposes of withholding approval. We had power we were unafraid of wielding, usually without regard to the consequences experienced by our victims.The reason I punched him, I suppose, had to do with my own need for approval. Standing in a crowd, I told him to take a hike. He laughed at my presumption. So, I punched him in the mouth.My outburst caused no small amount of consternation.