Justice Gorsuch. Neil. Nelly. Dad. There is no easy way for me to put this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. You have a son.
It wasn’t until I was 19 that my mother told me the story. I was conceived on your futon mattress in the FIJI house during the islander darty. Afterwards, you told my mother it was the best sex of your life . . . my mother swears that it was your insistence on partaking in “judicial foreplay” that made her switch to girls–NOT her Sulzberger roommate, Beth.
Growing up, there was always a part of me that knew that I was smarter than everyone else. A part of me that always hated Beth (she still lives with us). A part of me knew that while other people called my political ideology crazy, my views on men carrying their books to class in tote bags or “man purses” were right.
Like you, I attended the prestigious all-boys Catholic high school Georgetown Prep. And just like you, I graduated a virgin (we both had quite the reputation amongst the sister schools) and matriculated to Columbia. I didn’t think much about it, but when I called my mother after the first week and told her about my plans to rush FIJI and write for The Federalist—Spec did not like my tote bag article—she broke down in tears and told me about you.
Honestly, I don’t want to meet you or reconnect with my long-lost father. But . . . I did look up your net worth (8 million!!!) and Columbia is F%@$ing expensive. So you can either pay my tuition, or I can take this to The New York Times.
Your Son,
Quinn
