Scientists for the first time have successfully edited genes in human embryos to repair a common and serious disease-causing mutation. . . . But the achievement is also an example of human genetic engineering, once feared and unthinkable, and is sure to renew ethical concerns that some might try to design babies with certain traits, like greater intelligence or athleticism.

—The Times.

The gene that causes me to say “No worries!” about eighty per cent too much.

The gene that suddenly gave me Gene Shalit’s eyebrows at age forty-five.

The gene that caused me to eat your fries.

The gene that makes me get up and pee exactly four times during the previews before a movie.

The gene that causes me to nervously screw up the Ticketmaster captcha on my first four attempts, so that by the time I get to the “buy now” screen I’ve already missed my chance to purchase tickets to the sold-out Squirrel Nut Zippers concert.

The gene that causes me to like the Squirrel Nut Zippers.

The gene that makes me a flawless MetroCard swiper—unless there’s someone behind me.

The gene that causes my snoring to sound exactly like the flugelhorn solo from Chuck Mangione’s "Feels So Good."

The gene that causes me to say “What is that? Saffron?” to the host of every single dinner party I attend.

The gene that makes me convinced that I can open a beer bottle with my bare hands.

The gene that makes me too stubborn to go get a bottle opener even after cutting my palms to shreds on that stupid Shock Top Summer Grapefruit.

The gene that makes me think I’m a good dancer.

The gene that makes me wear a Hartford Whalers jersey to every single Super Bowl party and pay more attention to whether people notice my super-cool vintage-throwback taste than to the game.

The gene that caused me to write a hot take on my Tumblr about how “The Tortellis” was actually the best show in the “Cheers” universe.

The gene that caused me, in that essay, to refer to it as the (shudder) “Cheersiverse.”

The gene that makes me unable to survive a twenty-five kiloton blast from a North Korean nuclear warhead.

The gene that makes me need to lick my thumb in order to turn pages now, like some old-timey, green-visor-wearing accountant.