When you wake up tomorrow, you will be the most intelligent person on Earth.

I stared at this curious pop-up in the center of my computer screen. Not being exceptionally intelligent— it was, after all, still the night before—I had no idea what had caused this message to appear. I yawned, powered down my laptop, and went to bed.

           The next morning, as I fumbled to silence the incessant beep! beep! beep! beep!, I recalled the previous night’s computer message. Tomorrow had arrived. Either I was the most intelligent person on Earth, or—hmmmm. Did I really want to know? I Googled “intelligent, definition”:

           being able to easily learn or understand things and to deal with new or

           difficult situations;

           having the capacity for learning, reasoning, understanding, and similar

           forms of mental activity;

           having sound thought or good judgement and an aptitude for grasping

           truths, relationships, facts, meanings, etc.

Aha! Intelligent indicated ability, capacity, or aptitude—without the slightest hint that I might have exploited even an iota of this potential. So, even if I was the most intelligent person on Earth, I could conceivably be the most ignorant. That I had perceived this paradox reminded me that a trait of intelligent people is that they’re aware of what they don’t know. I chuckled and shut down the computer.

           As I got ready for work, my thoughts returned to the computer’s message. If I was superintelligent, my off-the-charts IQ would have been engendered either by my fairy godmother or by my wicked stepmother. Unknown forces would be using me to facilitate their agenda for good or evil. I had to admit that I was impressed at having such insight before my morning coffee. Thank you, Fairy Godmother?

           With my Keurig machine humming like a hive of honeybees, I searched the cupboard for cinnamon. Impulsively I rearranged the rows of spices alphabetically and then, while waiting for the drip to finish, scanned the front page of the Democrat Gazette. I was about to turn to the sports section when I stopped. I had total recall of all the front page articles. Whoa! This is too weird.

           Quickly I scanned the sports page and then dropped the newspaper. All I had to do was think of a team, and immediately I knew its win, loss, tie, and win-loss percentage standings. I could rattle off all the players and their stats. Wow, if this knowledge translates to the office football pool, I’m about to strike it rich. Heck, online betting is more like it!

           At the office, I performed my entire week’s tedious tasks with lightning speed and had just Googled “online betting” when my colleague emitted a string of expletives. Clever as I now was, I couldn’t pretend not to have heard. “What’s the matter?”

           “I finally managed to pop open my multi-tool to change the flashlight battery, and all these little pieces fell out!”

           I went to his desk and observed the tiny screws, a metal ring with a bent wire, clear plastic washers, a metal washer, metal triangle, dead battery, and the new battery. “Hmmm, let’s see.” Deftly I reassembled the components and snapped the tool shut. Then I pressed the flashlight button.

           My colleague stared as the beam splayed across his desk. Finally he muttered, “Not bad for someone who couldn’t figure out how to change his windshield wipers yesterday. Thanks.”

           Back at my desk, my mind raced through all sorts of possibilities. Now that I was beyond genius, I could learn any language, play any instrument, create music and art, and write literature. I could beat Watson on Jeopardy!, do quantum physics, produce unimagined inventions—and be rich and famous. Then it hit me.

           I’d never again enjoy a game of chess with anyone, let alone a passionate discussion about who’d win the Superbowl or MVP. Always knowing the best way to do something would result in a lifetime of frustration if I tried to interact with others. The one thing my intelligence couldn’t figure out, Evil Stepmother, was how to keep me from becoming a pariah.

           I understood the ultimate truth: Ignorance is bliss.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Turn over.

I'm waking up now, I can see instructions running behind my eyelids like movie credits. I never thought like this. 

Breath in.

Breath out.

Sit up.

What is going on? I can hear the drip of the leaky faucet of my old bathroom, the constant ticking of the clock on my night stand.  

Breath in.

Breath out.

Shake head.

I try to shake out the overwhelming cacophony of early mornings. It's 7:12 AM, the temperature is at 70 degrees and information is bombarding me. 

Breath in.

Breath out.

Stand up.

I'm getting dressed now, seeing every fiber of the cotton shirt before I even reach for it. The denim pants are jarring for I can practically taste the metal as I pull them on. Focus in on one object. I will myself to just do, not feel, not think. It doesn't work.

Breath in.

Breath ou-

The shriek of a baby makes me gasp, it's three floors above me, the baby needs to be changed. A girl is getting mugged in the lobby down the block, the gun is a glock, the man has a bad heart. It sloshes instead of a steady beat. He needs a double bypass. The doorman is asleep, his breath a cocktail of cheap vodka and cigarettes. My head is pulsing, matching the rapidly climbing  rhythm of my heart. The muscles in my fingers- the lumbrical muscles- are vibrating at an alarming speed. My vision is getting blurry, my finger tips look blue. I remember.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in. 

Breath out.

I read once when I was in college that a human being only uses 10% of their -our- brains. A girl, 22, with blue eyes, brown hair, a body mass index of 20.5, had asked what would happen if humans were to use 100%. The professor, a man, 45, brown eyes, gray streaked hair, weight of 175 had answered he did not know.  Remember.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Blink.

I was at work. I had arrived to the solemn printing company, the machines were howling making my brain rattle. I cut it off, they were no longer howling but were a dull buzz. 

Breath in.

Breath out.

Look around.

I saw strings. So many. Oh so many. It was a wonder I was not tangled in them. My boss, a woman, 52, gray eyes, grey hair, height 6'2 was covered in them, practically a puppet. Her heartbeat was at 70 beats a minute, her blood pressure at 95 over 75. The new intern, a girl of 17, green eyes, black hair, a mass in her neck had only 2. Her heart was barely a patter in her fluid filled lungs.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Focus.

I saw the movie credits running through my mind. I was sitting. New information running through it, my nose was filled with the stench of ink as new books were born. I stopped the credits, the scene with the professor was playing on replay in a small corner.  I brought it forward.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Go.

I was in the room again, watching the lecture. The dialogue played through, I moved to the front of the room, somehow making no motion. I ran my hand along one of the ancient computers. I traveled. Out, out, out. The small college blurred into cities, states, countries, planets. Earth spun, the endless tirades of wars becoming the greatest times of peace, the temperature rising and falling, humans' cries growing from a drone then back down to a theatrical silence. I knew, I knew, I knew. This was 100%

Breath in.

Breath out.