One man goes around all the time. “I’m great,” he’s thinking — just like that, without shame or reservation.
Another man is different. He’s convinced of his own mediocrity and often dwells upon it in solitary moments (which, it must be noted, are pretty frequent for him).
“What type of man am I?” perhaps the reader wonders about himself, too — because people frequently wonder such a thing.
Nor do I condemn the practice: I’m the type to write a short piece like this on an absurd little weblog.