There is this archetype of a person, most epitomized by Gatsby in The Great Gatsby. And this person is me, and this person is about six people I've known, all of whom I met at Stanford.

We're not fake, or maybe we are. If you're involuntarily fake, can you really be fake? I don't think we're fake as in the connotation given to snobbish, manipulative, condescending socialites. Rather, we put on a smile because anything else feels awkward. To others, it may seem awkward to smile when you don't mean it, but to me I feel more awkward if I don't smile when someone tells me a joke that I find only partially funny.

And my relationships aren't fake—I will bail you out at 4am from prison. Maybe fake is not the right way to describe a lot of my relationships. How about estranged? I want to connect with others, but there's too much of an extra-sensory discourse going on in my head, a superfluous backstory that interferes with intimacy.

How can I expect to have a normal heart-to-heart with someone who I spent the last hour analyzing?

Burden, duty, honor, obligation, and primal needs keep me connected. But honestly, I feel better when I'm alone in a room in Japan. I prefer being at a distance from my social sphere thousands of miles away.

But I don't want to do that. I don't like being estranged. Hell, I don't think it's healthy to be so alone. This sociality, an unpleasant mix of social skills and alienation, characterizes this archetype.