The first time I recall thinking I was cooler than anyone else was my first day of fourth grade. I was the dreaded new kid, which thrust me squarely at the bottom of the cool food chain—a dangerous place to be. The unfortunate waif I had replaced at the bottom was Sean Harris, a classic nerd. Sean had all of the nerd necessaries: glasses that likely could repel bullets (unconfirmed), blindingly pale skin, ear wax pouring from his ears and the musculature of an infant. Realizing his opportunity to glean a friend from my regrettable position, he immediately sought me out as an ally in an obvious effort to pull off a Captain Planet-esque maneuver: “With our powers combined, we are Captain Nerd!” Captain Nerd was clearly the better option to Lone Nerd in Sean’s eyes.

Thus, within minutes of my entrance into the classroom, he approached me, and without introduction asked, “Do you like Sonic the Hedgehog?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I replied.

“We’re going to be good friends,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Intrinsically, I knew that an alliance with Sean was social suicide, and I did everything I could to distance myself from him those first few weeks. I was petrified of my new classmates’ opinion of me.

I don’t remember my parents teaching me that it was important to be cooler than other people. In fact, I’m quite sure they taught me exactly the opposite. I picked this awful habit up somewhere along the way. Where from, exactly?