I once had the privilege of fucking a brilliant professor (courtesy of Tinder)—not some philandering philosopher, hard-working Chinese chemist, or pretentious historian. His thing was theoretical math. How hot is that?
He attended the Qatar Masters Open on a whim and beat undefeated chess champion, Yu Yangyi, who subsequently retired from the game indefinitely due to mental distress and hopelessness.
Mapp Biopharmaceutical offered him an advance of $10 million USD to develop an antibody treatment for Ebola virus disease, which he declined due to disinterest. Wet science was never his thing.
I made a terrible mistake, which will haunt me for the rest of my mediocre life. Let me tell you what happened.
The condom broke, but we didn’t notice until the end. He bought Plan B and I swallowed the evil pill immediately (the earlier, the more effective).
It wasn’t until I got my period that I realized I murdered what would have been a brilliant baby. Even with my average intelligence, the genes would only be diluted two-fold, leaving the kid’s IQ well within Einstein-range. Think of the perks!
By age 5 he would start being useful: fixing my laptop, concocting skin care treatments, genetically engineering our household plants to be self-watering etc.
By age 10 he would write my application to grad school.
By age 20 he would cure my impending Alzheimer’s—halt dementia before it begins.
By age 30 he would upload my consciousness onto a computer hard drive, making me immortal.
I really fucked up. Hindsight is 20/20 they say.