I'm a pretty smart guy, I'm told. Still, I have certain things I'm very bad at—things that even monkeys and four-year-olds can do. For instance, I can't order a sandwich at Subway. I don't go unless Lindsey is with me because if I tried, I would end up with a soggy bread blanket stuffed with five kinds of meat.

I also have trouble speaking when I'm excited or nervous. My mind shuffles and my mouth turns limp and lazy. Once, I was asked the question, "How do you feel about winning twenty million dollars and your own island?" Six minutes later I finally said "Good," after Lindsey broke three of my toes and pulled my nose ring out.

I also get the giggles pretty easily, probably because I frequently pretended to be a baseball bat when I was a child. I also laugh at inappropriate times. My friends dog died. I laughed. Lindsey has an infection on her butt. I laugh. I can't help it; things are funny. When I was a teenager I somehow got my butt stuck in a wall. It was funny for days.

Butt.