As you know, part of the 21st Century Social Contract is that the first person to gain access to a working time machine has to go back and kill Hitler. Preferably before he reaches apex Hitler. You may choose to take him down in, say, 1914; he's easy enough to spot (the guy knew how to stick to a look). If you're really lazy, you could opt to take on Hitler circa 1895. I mean, how easy would that be? No matter what age Hitler I got, I'd rub a little dog shit on his upper lip, indulging in some irony that literally no one will ever get because he's not going to live long enough to tarnish an already ugly mustache (by the way, this would also save Michael Jordan from later inflicting this upon himself and the world). And whatever you do: don't just leave Hitler for dead. You don't want to run the chance that he'll survive, get some hyper-advanced prostheses (Nazi scientists), and come back even angrier than before. Then you're responsible for Steampunk Hitler.
The only trouble is, this option is an easy out on the admittedly annoying "what would you do with a time machine" question. You're not going to use the thing once, surely. Especially not after the kick-ass job you just did saving history. So. How do you celebrate killing Hitler?
I'd start by going back to 1527 and challenging Henry VIII to a drinking contest. Bare in mind: I'm not picking this fight to win control of the not yet extant Anglican Church, or anything; I just need to know how well I'd do.
At this point, I--drunk out of my mind and undoubtedly having forgotten that I've already killed Hitler--would try to kill Hitler again. Upon seeing my past self doing just that, however, I would probably become confused and disoriented and would have to sit down until my head stopped throbbing. I'm speculating here, but drinking while time traveling cannot do wonders for the cognitive faculties in the short term.
Once my head is clearer, I'd take in a dinosaur fight or two. Because so would you.
Then I'd head over to 1953 and find a young Donald Trump. And I'd be nice to him, really nice. I'd play with him for a few hours, offering to do whatever he wanted to do. And just before we parted ways, never to see each other again, I'd give little Donald a great big hug, look him in the eye, and tell him that he's a really good, sweet kid and that no one can ever take that away from him.
Feeling good about myself, I'd finish my journey by jumping to 1690, where I'd promptly take credit for composing Pachelbel's Canon in D. Now, another man might use that status to get all kinds of syphilitic 17th Century ass. But, having seen dinosaur fights, I would know there's more to live for than easy, Enlightenment Era orgies. I just want the credit for creating modern pop music. Plus, marriage vows probably apply across time and space.
Of course, here and there, you have to stop and check out the important things. Be in the room when Johannes Gutenberg first explains his invention (to a smart person). See Lincoln at work in the Oval Office (the man just let people wander in, as though no one was looking to waste him). Hear The Beatles record "Love Me Do." Be at NASA headquarters for the Moon landing. Convince a teen-aged Park Jae-sang to go to med school instead of pursuing a career in music.
These are some of history's seminal moments. Missing those would be like walking by the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and not stopping in to check on Oscar Wilde's grave. Or walking by the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and not stopping in to spit on Jim Morrison's grave. These are the drab must-dos of time travel. Or, to put it another way, the things people expect you to tell them about when you return, so that you can't be accused of wasting your time. This category is not to be confused with the things that may seem like wastes to other people, but that made all the difference to you in ways that would be impossible to explain to someone else.
Time travel, like life, is filled with the things we must do, the things that will define who we have been. And those things will get done. But fully ignoring the things we want to do deprives us of a fuller journey that gives the must-dos purpose and meaning. It's like science and art; one we need, the other we wouldn't want to live without. Put yet another way: Doc Brown's orthodox sense of responsibility and Marty McFly's caution-to-the-wind sensibility are disastrous separately. Together, they make each other worthwhile. Occasionally these two categories will overlap into a beautiful amalgam and you'll get to kill Hitler or watch raptors wail on each other. But the rest of the time, we have to find the balance.
Oh, bring a T-Rex to 1914 to kill Hitler! Yes. Nailed it.
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