Okay, bad news: I had a system failure within the subsidiary Stark Mainframe (my home's system). The auxiliary power re-routed almost instantly from the generators, so I only lost about half of my data logs. Jarvis wasn’t responding, so it’s safe to say he went offline for awhile too. It’ll take a day to reload my backup files and set up a few more firewalls—I don’t know who the hell hacked in. I set a tracer, but nothing turned up except several hundred pages of meaningless binary.

Good news: who’s laughing now, Luthor?

Flying to the moon: harder than you’d think, but just as neat. What kid doesn't want to be me?

Jarvis and I have been cracking down on fixing up the Mark III for interplanetary flight. I'd honestly thought about making a new suit entirely, but that’d take months of work that I can't spare. No time to kill. Haven’t slept for days. Running on coffee and scotch and I'm still behind schedule. This is your fault, TiVo.

Thankfully, the last of the tests will be done this afternoon. Promise. I started the automated assembly an hour ago and it’ll take six hours to finish up. Here's hoping my repulsors don't fizz out mid-flight because it would really just ruin my day if I burned up in the atmosphere.

I had to pull a few strings with the contacts I have in NASA to nab more GT alloy from the Stark Industries’ satellites we have cruising around. I’ve plated that over the original armor so I can survive the temperature change from the mesopause to the thermosphere, which is something like -100°C to 1,500°C instantaneously. External PSI's not a factor, thankfully, since the suit's already pressurized. My power-to-weight ratio might be compromised but that won’t really matter in a lower gravitational field, especially not since I'm using ion propulsion for most of the trip. My main setback is successfully getting off of this rock. Don’t think I’ll have any other troubles while landing on the other one. Got a post-it? Learn, NASA.

Although now I can add 'astronaut' to my lengthy laundry list of achievements, which is just icing. Space chic. This will be the sexiest thing in orbit since Hubble. Providing I don't die.

Hey, Rachel: sorry I've been so swamped, but if you can stand Malibu a little longer I'll get back to you on that taking-you-out-for-drinks thing. Just, you know, keep working on your tan. I'll leave the kitchen to you. Bond with Pepper or something.