I Used to Be a Genius

I wasn’t always as ignorant as I am now. I used to be a friggin genius. Oh, I had answers for everyone. I told my parents how they should raise me. I corrected my teachers. Imagine, them saying we were descended from apes. I scolded my priest and told him he would have to love me anyway. I could even have solved the world’s energy, food, and homeless problems if people had let me. Sure, it involved some ass-kicking, but they all deserved it. That’s all behind me now. I have no more answers. They’re all gone. Now all I’m left with are questions.

Books, has anything good ever come of them? It all started innocently enough. I was a college sophomore and I was at the mall. I was bored and soon drawn to a colorful display, a pyramid of books. Out of curiosity I went in. The shelves of book were rather pretty. Colorful. The cover of one caught my eye. It had a large star burst on the cover. It looked like a good book, Cosmos. It had a lot of colorful pictures on nice glossy pages. I looked to my left and then to my right, and took the book to the register. I paid for it and had the cashier put it in a brown paper bag, just in case any of my friends saw me as I left the mall.

That night, when I returned home, I was relieved to find my parents already in bed. I went straight to my bedroom and took out the book. I began reading and by the end of the first chapter I was asking questions for which there seemed no answers. I was disoriented and didn’t like the feeling. I read on thinking this was surely some type of trick by the writer to get me to read the whole thing and not just look at the pictures. But it just got worse. The more I read, the more questions I had. Where were the answers? I checked the back of the book. They weren’t there.

Feeling frustrated and duped, I returned to the bookstore the next day. I tried to return the book but the manager insisted that there was nothing defective about it. I stormed out of there vowing never to return.

I was back the next day, the collar of my coat pulled up to conceal my face. I was sure that there must be another book somewhere in that store that had answers. This time I walked right passed the bestsellers to the self help section. I soon realized I didn’t need to loose weight or make a million. I wanted answers. The children’s section was right next to self help, but it was nothing but nonsense: "Are you my mother?" Christ, more questions! Cook books? Half baked. Automotive. I stalled. Romance? Another failure. By now I was dizzy and had broken out in a cold sweat. I had to get out of there quickly. I picked up a couple of serious looking covers in philosophy and some in literature and left.

Well, that’s how it all started. I’ve been hooked ever since. I can’t say it was pleasant, but it was all somehow strangely satisfying. I started to change. My girlfriend, Sophia, and I began to argue and we finally broke up over the nature of existence. My old friends began to worry about me and asked me why I spent so much time with my chin on my fist with my brows knitted. When I told them I was just thinking about things, they looked startled and asked me if I was scared or if one of them needed to be with me so I wouldn’t be alone so much. They complained that I was even using the language of an addict; words like Tolstoy, Hemingway, and Rowling. Before long I began to notice the change as well. I could enjoy black and white movies and could even pronounce “ennui.” I no longer automatically turned on the car radio when I drove or turned on the television just because I had some free time. My parents, too, began to worry. I began wearing khaki and hanging out with an expresso-drinking crowd.

That’s my story. My name is Socrates, and I’m a thinkaholic.