I have degrees from Columbia, Harvard, and Oxford. I have clerked for two Supreme Court Justices. I have served on the U.S. Court of Appeals Tenth Circuit for ten years. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get laser beams to shoot out of my eyes.

I worked for ten years at Kellogg, Huber, Hansen, Todd, Evans and Figel, PLLC. I spent the first three years trying to keep Hansen from biting Huber or Evans and the next three keeping Todd away from Kellogg after Figel married Kellogg’s first wife. I spent the final four designing stationary that said “Gorsuch, Kellogg, Huber, Gorsuch, Hansen, Gorsuch, Todd, Gorsuch, Evans, Gorsuch, and Figel, and Gorsuch, PLLC, Gorsuch.” But the whole time, I never stopped wondering when I would learn to fire lasers using my eyes.

I was born in the Swinging Sixties. I lived through the Disco Seventies. I survived the Decadent Eighties. But no matter how much acid I did, I couldn’t project streams of concentrated photons from my pupils.

I tried being liberal. I’ve been skeptical of overreaching prosecutors. I questioned protecting policemen from lawsuits when conduct is unconstitutional. I went to a gay pride parade and didn’t spit on people. But no lasers came forth from my eyes.

So I tried being conservative. I protected the rights of employers to deny their workers the health insurance plans they want if it contradicts the owner’s religion. I stopped believing in physician assisted suicide. I kicked a fairy. Yet still no radiant beams ravaged from my retinas.

I lost my sense of self. I looked in the mirror and saw a man I didn’t recognize. A man who had given his life to the pursuit of one goal—eyeball lasers—and failed miserably. A man who brushes his teeth with holy water, prays three times before making eye contact with an urban youth, and has a secret crush on Mr. Clean. A man who can’t get lasers to shoot out of his eyes.

I tried to find myself again. I climbed deep into the Himalayas with nothing on my back but a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, and two dozen copies of Teen Vogue to meditate on. I sat and gave my body over to the sun washing over me, then the rain, then the hail, then the lightning, then the booming, resonant voice of God, commanding me, “NEIL, YOU MUST FULFILL YOUR MISSION.” But. No. Lasers.

I have lost hope. “Supreme Court Nominee”?  More like “Supreme Wart Panini.“ Just give me a choice between the most powerful judicial position in the world or being able to burn “Me Stupid” into Huber’s jacket at parties. But I don’t have that choice. I’m giving up.

So, you ask, how does it feel to accomplish my dream? I'll have to get back to you on that one.