Spotted through the glass window of Linacre College, in the dimly lit music room:

A piano and its nighttime muse, a boy with tousled black hair. He played with his eyes closed. His head swaying gently to the music.

And beside him, a girl.

Her arms wrapped tightly around him.

Her head snugly propped into his side.

Now if that doesn’t renew your faith in true love, you’d best give up altogether.

Fuck.

It’s Sunday already? What the hell happened to Friday and Saturday?

This just in: Thirty 10-15 page assignments, given to me a day before they need to be marked — is just totally mean.

More breaking news: Phil’s life sucks monkey balls. Yes. I just said ‘monkey balls’. That’s how bad it sucks.

I know I don’t deserve it.

I’ve been sinfully negligent of my blogging duties these last few weeks.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you guys. Or think you’re all beautiful, beautiful people with wonderful personalities. Because I do. I really, really do.

Anyways, for the last few months, I’ve been steadily climbing in the rankings for the oh-so-prestigious (shrug) Blogger’s Choice Awards. At the moment, I’m hanging onto a Top 3 in the Best Design contest, and (surprisingly) ranked seventh in the Best Geek category.

The voting ends tomorrow (Friday), so — well, you know what I want. If you haven’t casted your vote already, go ahead and spend a few clicks for my sake. If you have, then make sure you check out the topic-du-jour: Ms. Anna Stern.

And of course, a quick thank you to Ms. Rhys for nominating me in the first place.

Anna Stern was that cute, sassy girl from The O.C. who — god knows why — had a thing for Seth Cohen. Remember? But like all minor characters from the hit teen drama, she suffered a hasty retreat when the writers just didn’t know what else to do with her story.

I just saw her. At the gym, I mean.

No, let me rephrase that.

I saw a much cuter version of Anna Stern with — as the young lads say — a killer bod.

And get this. Her name’s Annie. And she’s from California.

Which totally rocks my socks.

So it’s an hour before midnight. The gym’s totally deserted. All is quiet. Except for the two of us.

And that random, awkward silence every time the iTunes playlist goes between tracks.

I finish my workout, and get ready to ask her for her number.

But then I freeze.

Several years ago…

A wise gym buff once confided in me, “Phil, I never — never ask girls from the gym out on dates.”

“Why not?”, my young, naive self inquired.

“The gym is my sanctuary. Do you know how incredibly awkward things will be if she says “No”? And what if we part on not-so-amicable terms? I like my sanctuary the way it is. I don’t want to ruin that. Do you?”

No I didn’t. And I don’t.

But dude — it was Anna Stern. Except way, way hotter.

It took everything I had to walk away. Everything.

So in this moment of indecisive need, in this crucial moment of weakness, I’m turning to you, dear readers.

I’m asking you — no, begging you — to write in.

Reach out. Pick up a pen, a phone, a keyboard, whatever. Tell me what to do.