The next four days will perhaps be the four most important days of my life.

Here’s what hangs in the balance (no hyperbole, sir!)

(1) My M.Sc. degree
(2) My Ph.D. tenure
(3) Almost $300,000.00 Canadian in my pocketses
(4) And as a consequence of (1)-(3), pretty much my future as I know it.

You think I’m joking, don’t you? Okay, I lied.

I think it’s more like $270,000.00, but my eyes start to glaze over when I see so many zeroes.

A few days after my previous post, my friend Mike asked me “Just how old is too old?”.

It’s an unfair answer to an unfair question, but I defer you all to Ms. Audrey Hepburn, born May 4, 1929, undoubtedly my ‘oldest’ crush.

But with her adorable Anglo-European accent, gorgeous brown eyes, and demure smile, I suppose I’m not the only one who dreams about Audrey, either.

To: Diary
From: Phil
Date: October 07, 2006
Subject: Re: Older women

Dear Diary,

What is up with my crushes on older women? From famous celebrities/actresses like perrenial girl next door Meg Ryan (1961) and UN Goodwill Ambassador Julia Ormond (1965) to teachers and friends like — well, you don’t really expect me to spill the beans to a diary that lacks even the most rudimentary lock, do you?

Do you think it’s just a phase, oh wise Diary? Like punk/goth looks or turning sympathetic eyes towards Hawaiian t-shirts and flared out jeans, will this fad disappear into the depths of the attic, only to resurface decades later in dusty boxes marked ‘Yearbooks’?

It’s simply not healthy, dear Diary. First thing tomorrow, I’m hitting the malls and whistling at some 18-20 year old bleached blonde with the low-rise jeans, dangly earrings, Gap tank top, and of course, yellow flashy thong.

Ever Yours,
Phil

I started writing four long posts today but never had the heart to finish them. My thoughts — nay, my entire existence — can be summarized in one concise phrase:

If all else fails, hug your teddy.

Edit: I do not need a woman, Peter. Screw off.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel that my true calling in life is as a famous chick-lit writer.

To: Phil
From: Hopeless Geek
Date: October 01, 2006
Subject: dating women

Dating bar fly good or bad? Also what about dating emo woman? I just broke up with my girlfriend after 3-4 weeks of dating due to a few differences and I would like your thought’s on dating the two types I have motioned. and were would good places be to go looking for the ladies? I heard of super market’s and church.

Hopeless Geek

To: Hopeless Geek
From: Phil
Date: October 02, 2006
Subject: Re: dating women

Dear Mr. Geek,

As an amateur yet blossomming chick-lit writer, I’ve decided to write a little story on your behalf. Every bloke should know how to pick up a chick at the supermarket (or a church). So sit back, grab a beer, and enjoy this little narrative on how it really works.

As I reached forward to grab the scrumptious Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup© from the shelf, a slender hand appeared in the corner of my eye and made a grab for the same can. I looked up. And I saw her. She saw me. And we laughed. What a wonderful laugh she had - throaty, confident, and full of cheer. Our eyes met and it was like magic.

‘That’s mine.’ she said with a smile on her Crest-whitened teeth. She had dimples. Cute. Definately cute.

I shot her a look like the one Humphrey Bogart used on Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. A look that said, ‘I want you, baby. You’re all mine and I want you now.’

‘Baby, I’m keeping the soup,’ I said, deadpan, ‘And I’m keepin’ yous too.’

It was then that I realized it. We were meant for each other. Love at first sight. Sparks flew then and there: Aisle 9. Soup, Pasta, and Sauces.

‘Clean up in Aisle 9. Clean up in Aisle 9.’ went the PA system. Undistracted and so enamoured by this veritable angel I had found in the soup section, I was contemplating an overtake of the PA system in order to announce ‘Love in Aisle 9. Love in Aisle 9.’ Cheesy, I know. But I didn’t care.

I wanted her here. I wanted her now. Right here over the broken bottle of pickles. If we wanted to be adventurous, we could even sneak into Aisle 8: Whip cream and Hot Oils. We could barely keep our hands off each other as we rushed to my pad. There, we savoured a night of passionate love-making. Bosums heaving. Shirt buttons catapulting through the air.

‘First thing, come morning,’ she whispered in my ear later in the night, ‘I’m going to make you some Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup©’.

‘First thing, come morning,’ I whispered back, ‘I am so posting this on my blog. They were right after all. You can pick up babes at the supermarket’.