"The Winklevii?" Mark asks, his eyes widening and a fairly rare laugh dropping from his lips, brittle and sharp, fueled by the alcohol on his tongue. He's never been much of an exhibitionist, as far as his emotions go. Showing his emotions on his sleeve is nothing more than a weakness, allows people to read him and act accordingly; he's willing to take up the relatively small harm of people requiring his time for thorough explanations for his behavior rather than being blindsided. There's very little that he hates more than that, after all, especially after the incident with Eduardo at the facebook offices all those years ago. He knew what buttons he'd been pressing. He knew that Eduardo was sure to get upset, surely. But what he didn't like was how many people were suddenly able to see through him, somehow, murmurs of Eduardo having been passed around for weeks after, only worsened after Sean Parker was convicted for possessing and offering illegal drugs to minors.
His lip twitches, free of all those inhibitions, if only for a brief while.
"I have never cared what the Winklevii think," he nods surely, lips pulled back in a mix of amusement and the increased effort it takes to sort through his thoughts. "Even as final club members go, they're greater meatheads than the average, never planning on paying me any respect and only wanting to use me as a code monkey to fulfill their desire to get in the pants of countless women, apparently not satiated by the ample company that the clubs get to begin with. They didn't respect me. Why would I stay with people who don't respect me? Why would I listen to the orders of people who think they can lord over me when my intellect, in fact, outstrips their own? Rehabilitate my image, indeed." He looks away with a bitter look.
Even if he can admit to himself that his image isn't the best for fitting his needs, the Winklevii never stood a chance of helping him, not when they were planning to use him as a step stool.
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Date: 2011-05-21 01:01 am (UTC)His lip twitches, free of all those inhibitions, if only for a brief while.
"I have never cared what the Winklevii think," he nods surely, lips pulled back in a mix of amusement and the increased effort it takes to sort through his thoughts. "Even as final club members go, they're greater meatheads than the average, never planning on paying me any respect and only wanting to use me as a code monkey to fulfill their desire to get in the pants of countless women, apparently not satiated by the ample company that the clubs get to begin with. They didn't respect me. Why would I stay with people who don't respect me? Why would I listen to the orders of people who think they can lord over me when my intellect, in fact, outstrips their own? Rehabilitate my image, indeed." He looks away with a bitter look.
Even if he can admit to himself that his image isn't the best for fitting his needs, the Winklevii never stood a chance of helping him, not when they were planning to use him as a step stool.