While reading up on hypochondria the other day, I came across an expert who said those inflicted are often narcissists.
I am inflicted.
I am a narcissist.
It’s true, and I hate it. I certainly don’t think I’m great. I mean, I hate much of what I write; I’m not wowed by my looks or my talent or my non-journalistic abilities. I’m well aware there are more skilled people all over the world, etc … etc.
And yet … I have the thinest skin imaginable. I want to hear the critiques, yet I can’t often stomach them. Some unknown guy rips one of my books, and it stings. It really stings. Then I wanna respond; write back; have a dialogue. Why? I’m not sure—but it irks the hell out of me. Hell, maybe that’s why I have this blog. To get feedback; to respond; to have conversation about, well, me, me, me, me, me, me.
Man, that sucks.
I ran this by my wife, who said, “You’re a quiet narcissist.” I asked her to elaborate. “You check your e-mail a lot.” True, I do.
Anyhow, the first step is awareness. The second … not sure.
Good babble, though. Good babble.
** On a side note, I loved this. Fallon has been terrible, but not here.
