I'm a Fucking Show-Off

That's not it, really. It's more like this: I'm terrified that I'm nothing except smart, and to make up for that insecurity, I try to get a lot of juice out of my smarts.

If you met all of us at a party, I wouldn't be as charismatic as Corin or Rocco. I wouldn't be as kind and likeable as St. Frances or Diego. And probably not as funny, or as poised, as Ash.

I have a very specific skill: I'm decent at using the English language. Not as good as James Joyce, dear god, or William Safire or Peggy Noonan or even Lester Bangs. But it's how I earn my living, so you know, workable. But unlike architecture or rocket science or pastry chef-ing, English is something people do almost every moment of every day. That gives me a lot of opportunities to show off. I'd be at that cocktail party flexing my vocabulary, like a bodybuilder on Vencie Beach.

And all the girls would coo, "My, what a big vocab you have, Bins."

I've known this about myself since high school. I used to call it my "emergency pride." When I needed affection and admiration, I'd just show off my brainpower, usually my vocabulary.

I think that's the heart of the problem: I'm desperate for love, but I always play for admiration. I mistake admiration for love.

It's not that I think I'm a ton smarter than everyone else. It's more like, when they were handing out talents, in the staging are before we were all dropped on the earth, some people got generosity, compassion, wisdom, charisma, charm, warmth, gentleness. I got a little extra intellect – and nothing else. What is there to love? Instead, I'll perform, intellectually, for your applause.