My disdain for the paparazzi began early. When I was 9 my parents hired a professional photographer for a family portrait somewhere in rural CT. I thought the whole thing was gay, and, befitting my stubborn, contemptuous nature, refused to smile for it. The photographer kept cajoling and teasing me to get me to smile, but I refused. I quickly came to hate that prick. He ended up taking a bunch of pictures in which I could only manage an awkward smirk. Needless to say, I ruined the day for everyone, they informed me. Certainly the incident contributed to the growing rift and estrangement between me and my relatives which persists to this day. Just because I didn’t want to look like a grinning little idiot. Mofos.