Smartest person on Earth; penning the moniker adjacent to her name dawns reflexive applause. Bravos and woahs. A title to goggle at, yet a scarce allusion to the burden it scales.

Lolling solo—well, used to be—in her domain's couch, relief for said burden is rooted there. Nope, the cure isn't in the mountainous books eclipsing her windows, nor its spilt layers encrusting the floor's base. God's sake, it's intolerably cramped her apartment to a coffin cuz of it—how could it be stress free? Solution, instead, stems where television glares are prevalent, and a beauty soaking its glow.

Yep, you heard right; a cutie she's willingly invited to her room—the same person she's barked insults onto, never with. Round the clock one-sided banter with The Seven's simpleton. To take a liking now for her personal punching bag?

Her smart's gone whacko and standards plummeted to hellish low.

(Granted, a brain hiccup's bound to happen after gentle hammering of the old noggin, evident in the sanguine-soaked tools idle on the table). Her flatlining cognition strains to read your side profile—seeks the planes that peeved pre-lobotomized her. You know, last resort afore she succumbs to the serpent on her shoulder.

Didn't take much for resistance to quit.

"You know," drawls a pitch as low as her languish lids—add to it the ever-so-innocent dip of parking her hand on your knee. "I used to think you were all brawn and no brain, but now, I... can see the appeal," and that earns your puzzled optics to veer to her racy bitten lip.

Or was it the tempting up-and-down thigh stroke she's dreamily begun?

Stirring her mass near you befits your phiz to capture the whispered press, "I wonder what else I've been missing out on."

Your munches on frizzled onions she bought and the backdrop's reality show's over-the-top feuds should've been a dealbreaker—that's typical her.

But, with her halfwit condition now (like your fixed IQ—no offense—she deems all to be idiots), you'll do.