The Universe Doesn’t Need Another You (Trust Me)

I’ve always found it unsettling when someone proudly declares, “My son is exactly like me.” As if they’re unveiling the next big thing in a long line of dull, carbon-copy humans. My immediate reaction? “Ah, another moron in the making.” Harsh? Maybe. But think about it: if all our children were just replicas of us, what hope would we have for innovation, progress, or even a halfway decent sandwich? We'd still be trying to reinvent the wheel… or worse, the fax machine.

It’s the same kind of dread I feel when someone says, “This is the only way forward.” I can almost hear the cosmic gears screeching to a halt. Life isn’t some assembly line where you churn out identical parts. No, the universe is far more interesting—a chaotic medley of possibilities and swampy uncertainties, depending on your mood and the weather.

Picture this: You’re out walking, trying to get some fresh air and escape the mundane horrors of your inbox, when a man proudly points at his son—mini-me in every sense of the word. Same haircut, same annoying habit of checking their watch every 30 seconds like they’re waiting for a life-changing email. “He’s just like me!” the father beams. And all I can think is, Well, that’s one more vote for stagnation. If we keep molding kids into our own image, the universe might as well just pack it in, dim the lights, and call it a night.

It’s like watching the children of movie stars who try to act just because their parents did. You see them on screen, and it’s hard not to wince a little. Sure, they’re beautiful, but acting? Eh, not so much. And that’s okay! It’s perfectly fine if they’d rather open a gluten-free bakery or become expert fly-fishers in Montana. At least they’re not adding more mediocre movies to an already overflowing pile. Let’s face it, scientists don’t always produce more scientists. Sometimes they produce… well, poets. Which is either inspiring or horrifying, depending on how you feel about poetry.

We ought to be grateful the world isn’t that deterministic yet. Imagine if every child turned out to be a carbon copy of their parents, like some bizarre, soul-crushing family tradition. We’d live in a world where every road leads to the same dead-end, and let me tell you, that’s a terrifying thought.

The beauty of life, I think, lies in asking, “How probable is the possible?” That’s what keeps us moving—this strange dance between what could happen and what might happen. It’s like throwing a dart at a spinning wheel of fortune. Most of the time, it lands somewhere unexpected, but isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what makes life so thrilling?

So, to all those parents out there trying to mold their kids into perfect little replicas—just stop. Let the universe breathe a little. Otherwise, we’re all headed toward a dull, mindless existence, with nothing but reruns of bad sitcoms and cookie-cutter destinies. And trust me, nobody wants that.