Insecurity? That's awfully rude, isn't it? He lowers his brows and gives Dr. Hill the first look of the session, and what a look it is. But the doctor keeps on talking, and as the conversation progresses his expression naturally softens. His eyes shift left and right as he considers what's being said.

"Steve was mad on my behalf. I think he got it," he says slowly, "But I think most people... Don't want me to be mad when I'm insulted. They don't get why stuff hurts. People're allowed to say whatever they want to me, and I'm not allowed to get mad, 'cause then I'm outta line. And I hear it so much that sometimes I feel like... Maybe I am wrong? And it shouldn't bother me? And I oughta be used to it? But if I bottle it up, I just get madder and madder 'til the next person who comes along, I just... I explode, y'know? I explode, and then I'm really outta line, and then I got no room to complain or explain, 'cause I'm the bad guy, and that makes life easier on everyone."

His nostrils flare with a snort and he feels himself getting hot under the collar. He undoes some of the buttons of his tuxedo and loosens the cloth away from his neck so that he can fan away some of the claustrophobic sweatiness of this outfit.

"No matter what I do, I'm always the fuck-up and the bad guy. Maybe it would be easier if I was just a construct. No thoughts, no feelin's, no consciousness. But..."

He swallows hard and shakes his head. There is no 'but.'