My Bitter, Bitter Life: The Origin of Neuroses

One of the things that I hear most often happens when people meet me for the first time. It’s usually said after a period of silence and a lot of squinting – the sort of squinting you see from people trying to figure something out, like an incredibly difficult algebra equation. When the phrase is said, it’s said with utmost certainty. The kind of certainty applied when someone says, “It is wet outside” on a rainy day.

The phrase is, “You know, you are George Costanza.”

I once tried to rail against this. I didn’t want to remind people of a short, portly, neurotic, bespectacled horrible person. I don’t think anyone does. If I were going to be anyone in Seinfeld, I would’ve instead chosen to be Kramer. I mean, come on, the man was on strike from a bagel bakery for something like ten years and still somehow afforded rent in Manhattan. That’s the sort of luck in life I want, not driving women to lesbianism and being mistaken for a prominent Nazi.

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