About Me

My Story

Trevor Nestor is currently a graduate level researcher, sci-
entist, and AI engineer at Microsoft, has previously worked

at Meta, at banks, and has studied the topics of

lattice cryptography, controversial theories of conscious-
ness, and theories of quantum gravity for over 10 years.

Starting as an undergraduate at the University of Califor-
nia, Berkeley, Trevor was a student of fields medalist Dr.

Richard Borcherds who specializes in string theory and
lattice maths.

During his travels, Trevor traveled off-grid in a trailer
he built as a digital nomad where his uncanny adventures
influenced his work.

​

Trevor sits in a dimly lit coffee shop near the UC Berke-
ley campus, his laptop open to a string of code. At 28, he’s

dressed in the unofficial uniform of Silicon Valley engi-
neers: a faded band T-shirt (his father’s punk rock group,

*Fatal Error*), jeans, and the tired smile of someone who
has spent too many nights debugging algorithms. But

his story is no ordinary tech-bro narrative. Trevor has be-
come an accidental chronicler of millennial angst, blend-
ing computer science jargon with painfully relatable tales

of romantic misadventures, familial dysfunction, and a
generation’s search for stability in an unstable world.
Trevor’s origin story reads like a Wes Anderson script
directed by David Lynch. His father, a leather-clad punk
rocker, wrote subversive anthems about repression and

nonconformity while his mother, a devoutly religious tradi-
tional homemaker, enforced strict creationist conservative

beliefs and banned secular music in their home. “Imagine
growing up where your dad’s band practices in the garage,
but he has to whisper the lyrics because Mom might hear
the word ‘hell,’” Trevor says, sipping a black coffee. “It
was like living inside a Schrödinger’s box of rebellion and
guilt.”

This dichotomy, he theorizes, shaped his attraction

to what he calls “quantum women” — partners whose un-
predictability mirrors the chaos of his upbringing. “In

physics, quantum tunneling lets particles pass through
barriers they shouldn’t. My dating life feels like that: a
series of impossible probabilities crashing through my
emotional firewall that nobody bothered to tell me how to
navigate - I can’t tell what my role even was supposed to

be, or if marriage is supposed to be an oppressive institu-

tion designed to control the autonomy of women or if I’m
supposed to think of relationships with commitment and
monogamy in mind.” Coming from Simi Valley, California,
a conservative haven which contained the Ronald Reagan

presidential library and the site of the worst nuclear disas-
ter in US history which released more radiation than the

Three Mile Island disaster, Trevor then graduated at the
top of his class and attended the University of California,
Berkeley.

At the university, Trevor found himself thrust into
what he describes as “the noise floor of human experience,”
like "falling into a wormhole but never emerging on the
other end." In fact, during welcome week at UC Berkeley,
students do a dance to the "time warp," an annual ritual,
and then once again when they graduate. Trevor never
had the opportunity to do it again, after initially dropping

out when the campus devolved into protests where stu-
dents deposed the chancellor of the university by force

after a year of 500 million dollar budget cuts to the UC

system. The campus’s notorious counterculture — com-
munist professors screening gay adult films in lectures,

anarchist collectives staging protests against chain restau-
rants, floormmates scaling buildings nude — became both

a crucible and a metaphor for his internal chaos and tur-
bulence. “It was like my code kept hitting segmentation

faults,” he says, referencing a common programming error.

​

“Every day, my worldview *segfaulted*.” But the real
education, he says, came from learning to navigate a world
of symbolic contradictions where logic often fails. “You
can’t debug human emotion. Love isn’t a deterministic

algorithm — it’s more like. . . a blockchain with no con-
sensus mechanism.” In one interaction, Trevor describes

taking a homeless person out to lunch named Rainbow.
"He was trying to tell me that people connect with each
other wirelessly, but I tried to tell him that’s technically
infeasible when the electromagnetic waves in the brain are
too weak to propagate beyond the bone tissue of the skull."
Trevor’s romantic résumé could fill a cringe-comedy

anthology. There was the high school actress who am-
bushed him in a movie theater (“like a SQL injection at-
tack on my boundaries”), the Soviet-era ballroom dancer

who quoted Marx during a tango (“she had a Red Army
firewall”), and the anime-obsessed neighbor who crawled

toward him (“like a DNS spoofing attack”). His most in-
famous tale involves a Risk board game session that es-
calated into what he calls “a multiplayer game of emo-
tional DDoS.” When a friend’s sibling pounced on him

afterwards mid-victory lap (he’d conquered Australia, a
classic Risk strategy), Trevor froze — a response he now

attributes to “buffer overflow in the amygdala.” “I’m basi-
cally a proof-of-concept for why engineers shouldn’t date

without a runtime environment,” he jokes, though his eyes
betray a flicker of vulnerability.

Trevor’s professional journey mirrors his romantic
chaos. After the Occupy Cal protests, he felt disoriented,
"it was like playing a video game that glitches up after you
miss a main quest item, where after you are left roaming
around the map aimlessly messing around" he commented.

Initially searching for engineering positions, Trevor re-
ceived a rescinded offer from defense contractor General

Dynamics (“they did something sketchy — I got a 2,000

dollars hush-money check”), he endured a surreal inter-
view with an intelligence consultant in Virginia who grilled

him on Java encapsulation while ranting about political
conspiracies. “She asked if I was ‘rebellious.’ I said I’m
more of a Turingmachine— linear, predictable. She ghosted

me harder than a null pointer exception, and I didn’t understand why.”

​