Before I had graduated high school and ever entertained the idea of doing one degree let alone three, I told my mother that I wanted to be either a Check Out Chick or a Crash Test Dummy when I grew up, failing to see the painful irony in my choices.
“You want to sit in a car and be thrown against a wall for a living?” AM asked, feeling as though she had somewhat failed as a mother.
“It can’t possibly be worse than being a vet and sticking your finger up animals poop holes all day. Dummies, probably, have perks.”
Because we all know that there appears to be an abundance of rewards for the idiots in real life.
When I started studying for the third time, everyone bar my professor asked if I was going back to school purely for the hot boys and hotter sex.
“No,” I demanded. “But it is a nice perk, isn’t it?”
Throughout my entire university career, sex and academia have correlated. Which probably explains why I have a fantasy of doing It in the library up against the woman’s liberation reference books.
The two previous degrees were dedicated to boyfriends – a bachelor and masters of Falling In Love – but studying philosophy somehow encouraged a much more free thinking approach to sex and I have remained single by choice (and, probably, circumstance). I am possibly sitting on a Credit, at best.
My LA girl friend and I decided that sex is linked to ones intelligence after we were both going through a drought and running into walls.
“You can totally fuck yourself smarter,” she told me. “It clears your mind and makes room for information.”
I like making room for things and so I agreed, despite a lack of actual evidence, and declared, “I want to be a genius!”
During my second semester of studying Plato, I simultaneously realized that I had not had sex for one month and had lost at least one third of my vocabulary. I went from having an abundance of sex words at my disposal, to make the act sound intellectual, to simply dry humping air when trying to articulate myself.
When I woke up and discovered that another month had passed, I wondered what number followed ‘one’ so I could give an accurate time reference to my situation.
“I think that memory also fucks off in the absence of *insert dry humping here*,” I told LA girl friend. “Because I can’t even remember who I last did It with.”
It was no longer a recreational hazard: I was officially dumb with no tutorial in sight.
It is no secret that orgasms make people happy. You can always tell who is having them: Fucking imaginary friends is replaced by skipping down the library hall. Speaking at all is substituted by constant smiling and nothing really bothers you.
“You failed the exam,” you may be informed. But who cares? You did It doggy style four times instead of reading!
Sex can also, apparently, cure the common cold. If we all had our way, flu medication would be obsolete and pharmaceutical companies would be filing for bankruptcy while we all came up for post-coital air.
When one is not having sex (like me. Hi! Welcome. Try the chicken.) a preoccupation with It develops. It pushes out vital information like what ingredients are necessary for macaroni and cheese and makes room for endless fantasies. Simple questions have no answers because You (me) are too busy daydreaming about throwing the text book out of That nerds hand and replacing it with your entire body.
I frequently try to awaken people to the reality that someone can be both intelligent and sexual at the same time.
“Just because She [/He] has a desire to have things lay on top of her [/him] does not mean she [/he] is an idiot,” I explain when I am at my intellectual peak from laying on top of things. While it may not be obvious at the time (and I pity the fool who attempts to read John Locke while doing the reverse cowgirl), a whole world of a person exists outside of the immediate act. Any intelligent person will agree. A way to spot them is by finding the girl or boy skipping past the computer lab flu-free.
When I have a crush, I have only one smart plan of attack: I don’t dry hump anyone else. I focus on my prize at hand because my inability to multi-task means that I can’t read, write, scout and cum simultaneously. It means that I can end up the horny idiot in the corner, sure, acting as the intellectual beard for asexual party-goers. But it also opens up a possibility of indulging in the stupidest idea humans ever came up with: monogamy.
When Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Have Now Talked To was just a pretty face I had never conversed with, I had only fantasies that involved no clothes and no thinking. But after putting two-thirds of my vocabulary to good use, he emerged as a Crush Test Dummy with the ability to unlock my brain and take off my pants. Gone are they days where I just want to throw him against a wall and welcomed are the perks that come from having a genuine crush.
“Finally, you are putting that education to good use,” AM beamed, feeling as though she had somewhat succeeded as a mother. “Maybe you really are a genius.”
