It's all good, frank. I know quite a bit more about your life because of your great stories than you do about mine so that's certainly fair 
There's a certain, uh, problem with that, though.
While in those short stories, other than the added primitive-elements, I accurately show my life (again, other than the primitive elements), in blunt truth it's only a minuscule part of this everyday life. It's all true, other than the primitivia in it, but it's only a scrap, a fragment.
I dunno what impression I give of myself here, but I suspect some of it is the impression of utter confidence.
And yes, I really am that way, utterly confident.
It's that, or to be afraid of everything and everybody. There's no middle-ground.
But at the same time, all those around me in real life are always nervous, fingernail-biting nervous. Not nervous about me, but nervous for me. "He doesn't have the slightest idea of what's going on, and he's going to innocently get into trouble....."
It goes way back, to the beginning of life.