I needed a friend today.

That’s not really true. I have friends. In fact, I have lots of friends.

I have friends I went to school with, friends I go to school with, and friends I met at school. I have math friends, physics friends, computer friends, and artsy friends. I have friends who come to me for advice and friends who are all, “Suck it, jerk”, because I gave them lousy advice.

I have funny friends, not-so-funny friends, and downright obnoxious friends. I have skinny friends and I have fat friends. I have friends who can laugh at my jokes, friends who can make me laugh, and friends who can laugh at me. I have friends who need me to tutor them, friends who need me to teach them, and friends who just plain need me.

But today I had a really fucked up day, y’know?

And what I needed, what I really needed, was a different kind of friend. The kind of friend you can call in the wee hours of the night to moan to about your totally fucked up life. A friend with whom you could sit with and not say a single word because they would know exactly what you were trying so hard not to say. A friend who would give you a hug, pat you on the back, and say, “It’ll be all right”, even though everybody else is screaming, “What a goddamn wuss.”

I had a couple of friends like that once. They’re not my friends anymore. Fucking shame because sometimes — just sometimes — I wish I had someone to go to.

And I realize that for all the shit I’ve done. All the awards I’ve won and all the respect I’ve garnered among colleagues and acquaintances, I still can’t find a friend like that.

But one of these days, I’m going to pay a therapist $250 an hour. And then I’ll have a friend.

Sometimes, I just don’t feel like going through the motions of writing up a witty post.

phil bares all

In a matter of months, you won’t be able to open up another internet site without seeing an advert with my firm, clenched butt cheeks centerfold and the caption “Crazy Mathematician: Naked and Loving It”.

It takes me a while to think of a topic to write about, though that usually occurs in a flash while I’m in the shower doing — well, that’s between me and the shower. Then when I get out, I’ll have to spend a few minutes brewing up a strong cup o’ caf because otherwise I’d never make it through the writing process.

Getting my ideas down on paper is harder than it sounds. It’s dependent on how eager I am to write the post and how fresh the subject material is in my head. Since I’m ridiculously short on wit and hopeless with comedy, every paragraph needs to be revisited so I can convince my readers that I’m smarter and funnier than I actually am.

Hours may pass. Somewhere halfway through, I’ll lose interest and go off to bake some cupcakes.

And then the inclusion of photos takes me another 10-30 minutes, depending on what the photo is, how it will compliment the colours of my site, whether I need to take it myself, and how much post processing it requires.

Then finally, the post is edited and re-edited until I’m satisfied.

But instead, let’s pose a hypothetical alternative:

I take out my camera and tripod (2 minutes), strip down buck naked (45 seconds, depending on what incentives are offered), rummage in my closet for my Indiana Jones’ hat and plop it on my head (1 minute), lie on my bed in some saucy, revealing position and snap a picture (3 minutes), post-process the picture (5 minutes), then upload it to the site and add a caption (1 minute).

In about 10 minutes, I can create a post that will generate more traffic and more disgusted viewers than anything I’ve ever tried before.

Mind you, I’ll be losing a fair amount of readers — the sane and sensible ones — and that’ll be a shame of course, but I’ll win them back. Eventually.

In a matter of months, you won’t be able to open up another internet site without seeing an advert with my firm, clenched butt cheeks centerfold and the caption “Crazy Mathematician: Naked and Loving It”. I’ll be invited to one of those corny late night talk shows where I’ll be able to discuss my upcoming book deals and guest appearences on the next big Hollywood blockbuster.

Of course I’ll remember you guys. The little people who helped me along when I was just another attractive twenty-something with hopes and dreams of being a star.

“I’ll give you a call sometime, babe,” I’ll say, and then we’ll have tea and I’ll tell you all about how they’re paving my name into the sidewalk next to Clint Eastwood or Mariah Carey. And then you’ll cry, telling me how difficult it’s been since my two, perfectly sculpted ass cheeks made an appearance on this site…

Look, I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t hate me when I make it big, okay? It’s written in the stars, honey. Or at least imprinted somewhere on my rump.

A month ago…

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”, I said rather nonchalantly.

She looked at me for a second with a bemused expression on her face, then laughed.

“Older than you, that’s for sure.”

“How old?”

“I’m forty.”

My jaw opened wide as I not-so-smoothly stalled, shifted to reverse, and backed up hastily.

“I thought you were younger”, was the only thing I could think of to mumble.

At this point, she started to laugh, then through teary-eyed mirth, gasped something about “Oil of Olay doing its job”.

Mortified, I sent a silent prayer up to God and begged Him to send a lightning bolt down and swiftly end my humiliation.

As some of you know, I’ve been hammering out the details with the administration at my former high school so that I could serve as an assistant lecturer, beginning this semester.

The deal was that I’d choose a couple math classes and lecture the students for a handful of times each week. I adore teaching — especially teaching math — and so in exchange for this delightful opportunity, I would spare the teachers several hours of hellish treatment at the mercy of the little delinquents.

I’d be disguised as a naive and attractive teacher, fresh from makin’ it through the slums of Brooklyn, looking to reform the educational system and inspire students to greatness. I’d hang my balls out there for their personal amusement, and they’d reward me by sucking out any youthful vitality and enthusiasm I’d be bringing to class.

It was a good deal. Then I got an e-mail from the Principal.

They want me to do what?

For one thing, I thought my English teacher hated me. I was snuffed out of the English award my final year, and, well..I’m a hardcore math geek. Most of us can barely string together coherent sentences and certainly our profession leaves little room for flexing our language muscles.

In fact, I’ve always been a bit shameful of my capacity for writing and my everyday parlance. My writing and speech capabilities are far from Shakespearean and in real life, I’m more like a Neanderthal than anything. A Neanderthal with a penchance for Sherry.

Anyways, I doubt I’ll be taking up the opportunity. What’s next? Phil teaching a cooking class?

This goes out to the girl who told me, rather matter-of-factly, that I would never be able to understand something as complex as a woman’s behaviour through mere Mathematics.

Unfortunately, if you ever try to graph that function, your computer will probably take on a life of its own, hook up with your other desktop, take all your money, then dump your sorry ass.