Left her when her love for me was at its peak. An easy choice. The logic that led me there was irrefutable. Logic I was capable of reaching thanks to my exceptional intelligence. Early twenties. About to leave my small hometown. The opportunities ahead. Abundance of pussy on the horizon. The voice inside reminding me everyday that I'm missing out. Visions from my deathbed, regretting that I never had Asian pussy. Never had Slavic pussy. Bereft of fulfillment until I try them in all shapes and colors. I had to leave her. It could never have worked. Not with the constant screaming of the voice inside.

To make it work, I needed to understand women. To understand women, I needed to fuck many of them. To fuck many of them, I needed to let her go. This is irrefutable logic. By letting her go, I was renouncing a possibility of true love. My first chance at true love. Thought that, with luck, I would find a couple of these chances in my lifetime. There are two or three "the ones" out there for everyone. Letting her go was the smart thing to do. A small price to pay to get rid of the voice inside. A safe bet, considering that I had one or two more chances ahead. Without the voice inside, I could make true love work. Determined on my quest to understand women, I spent the next decade indiscriminately shoving my meat pipe into anything with a heartbeat. Had the Asian pussy. Had the Slavic pussy. Had them all. But I couldn't see, blinded by the horniness, that my other chances at true love came and I fumbled them.

There's a trade-off one needs to make that I wasn't aware of. Had to wait an unfair amount of time for this revelation. I was alone at home. Made myself an old fashioned. A blank page glared at me from my word processor. I was deluded, under the impression that I had any writing talent. The blinking cursor knew and mocked me in a steady rhythm. All I could think about was her. She wasn't perfect, but it became obvious what a great wife and mother she'd be. My first chance at true love. It was too late. Scrolled through her Instagram. Years had passed, but she hasn't changed. Saw she was married and expecting a baby girl. Typed "congratulations! happy for you" and pressed send. Took a sip of the old fashioned and thought about all that could've been mine.

Thoughts of the road not taken rushed through my head. A new voice inside spoke of an alternative timeline. Married with children. Had them young like I always wanted. A girl and two boys. The house decorated for Christmas. Art and family photos on the walls. Morning coffee on the balcony. Sunday lunch at grandma's. One half of me happy. The other half frustrated. One-digit body count because I married too early. The same voice telling me that I missed out. No Asian pussy. No Slavic pussy. But it doesn't have to be like that. I aged well and stayed in shape. Women make eye contact, they smile back at me. The voice inside insists. I embark on the quest. Get lost in their young, tight, and wet magic. They like me because I'm married. She finds out and we get divorced and women don't like me as much anymore. End up seeing the kids every other weekend.

Finally the revelation struck me: Either I become ran-through enough to realize I fumbled my chances at true love, or I take one of those chances and resent her because I didn't get the opportunity to be ran-through. The resentment then blinds me from realizing what I have. And with this revelation comes another: I'm not as exceptionally intelligent as I thought. True intelligence is figuring out how to be happy.