I did two open mics in my student union coffee shop within the first month of college, and I was met with thunderous indifference. I had a very fragile sense of self at the time, and it was shattered. The nail in the coffin was walking through the English building and hearing a person say, "Hey, it's that comedian...," with the tone of voice of someone vomiting out of their fingers. I had told everyone in my dorm, when we went around and introduced ourselves at orientation, that I was a comic. And those two bad performances didn't take the label away from me, but they did add something to it: I had failed to mention that I was a bad comic.
After that, I rushed to make myself unique. I looked 12 until I was 20, so being the attractive guy was not an option. I was smart, but not the impressive kind of smart. I was the kind of smart that, if you knew nothing about computers, I could help you install Microsoft Word. Within two weeks of beginning college, I drunkenly shut my hand in a sliding window and had to be taken to the hospital, so being the fun alcoholic was nixed. And I was generally awkward, so my chances of being a guy that you'd ever want to hang out with at all were slim. So I picked movies, as I knew a little bit about them, and knowing who played that one guy in that one thing while you're chatting during a beer pong game makes you the most useless of demigods.
Aside from people who are actually good at beer pong.
I began collecting them, because if my personality wasn't going to shape the fuck up, at least people could see what I had and say, "Look at that! Daniel has definable characteristics and is not so easily forgotten!" I would grow to really love movies, but at the start, I just wanted to be the guy who owned things. If someone asked, "Does anyone have that Ozploitation film that never got an official release in the U.S.?" I could answer with, "Step into my lair, buddy. Let's see what's in the backpacks, shall we?"
Answer: What's in the backpacks, mostly, is low self-worth.