Everyone knows a real man doesn't rely on Leetcode to hone his skills. Traversing a binary tree and performing a merge sort come naturally to him. He was born with a gift, and everybody can sense it, especially women. He needn't hint at his talents through flared nostrils as some effete gazelle who trembles at the sound of its own voice, hoping to catch the attention of some hapless employer not in the know about the precarity of its knowledge.

The weak man boasts of his Runtime Percentage Beat, a self-grandiosity which grows in inverse prorportion to his social capital. The strong man analyzes runtime complexity as he does his lady friend's Big O: calmly, confidently, without effort. Never has he known the dreaded eye roll, the furrowed brow, the half-quizzical, half-disgusted, half-open mouth of his inicipient sweetheart as she not-so-surreptitiously distances herself upon learning he spent the weekend timing himself practicing Leetcode Hard.

No, a real man would be ashamed to ever let anyone see him feverishly smashing Submit for the 30th time at 2 a.m. on a Friday night, bedraggled and bedecked with his own nose pickings, praying to finally be Accepted. The real man has already been Accepted. He needn't the recognition of his lessers, and if he does, he has enough common sense to at least clear his browser history afterwards and to never, ever speak about it in good company.

I leave it to you, Dear Readers, to judge what sort of man I am.