A great mystery has struck the math department.

It seems that every once in a while — most likely during the nights — someone uses the whiteboard in the common room to scribble various notes of the mathematical sort.

It’s not that the math is brilliant. Or that the scribbles prove some hundred-year old mystery.

“But just look at this writing,” a faculty member exclaims one afternoon, “It’s just so neat. And look at these diagrams. Who’s responsible for this?”

Nobody’s really sure.

The board’s been untouched since. Except for single, small addition: “Who’s is this handwriting?” it now says at the top.

And me? I just sit there. Tickled.

I am told that beautiful women are everywhere.

No. Really.

They’re literally everywhere. They’re in every nook and every cranny, every street and every corner. They have big blue eyes and small brown ones, long blonde hair and short raven hair. Legs that reach the skies. Soft, velvety skin. And they love to tease us with their skirty skirts.

You — you could very well be one of these beautiful women.

You probably are. Don’t lie.

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I can’t see them. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I can’t see any of them.

It started a few years ago. That’s when the numbness started. But it’s worse, now. It’s so bad, I can’t feel anything.

Imagine this: I’m walking down the street with a friend, and a girls passes in the distance. So my friend’s all, “She’s pretty cute”, right?

“Hrmm…” I’d mumble, looking up for a second. “Yeah, she’s alright…”

That’s it. “She’s alright”. Not, “she’s spectacular,” or “she’s gorgeous”, and never ever is she “wow”. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a ‘Wow’ moment. They just stopped happening.

These women — these women I pass on the streets or see at the University — they could be Venus and it wouldn’t matter. They could be Jennifer Connelly or Jessica Alba in the flesh. Even Audrey Hepburn, back from the dead. I wouldn’t have even raised an eyebrow.

Because I’m numb, you see.

The thing is, I do see them; I see that they’re pretty, I see that they’re slim and have a nice figure, and I see that they have great hair. But I don’t really see them, you know? It’s more like I’m a judge, rather than a spectator.

I’m impartial. Neutral and unaffected.

But this numbness, it doesn’t take the Crane brothers to figure out what brings it on. I actually know the cause.

My days are roughly the same, day in day out. I wake up in the morning and haul my ass to work. If I decide beforehand to bring a lunch and dinner to work, I’ll stay there until eight or nine in the evening. If I don’t bring a dinner, I’ll head home at six to cook myself one or, if I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I’ll head to dining hall for dinner. At ten, it’s gym-time, and by 11:30 PM, I’m back home.

Occasionally, I’ll play rugby with the college in the evenings, and that helps break up the monotony. But for the most part, it’s an easy cut-and-paste affair.

Do I mind that my life is structured like this? Maybe. But it’s what I do. That’s the best answer I can give to friends and family who criticize me about my lifestyle. It’s what I do. At least for now.

Besides, that’s not the real problem.

At night, I prepare for my slumber with an episode from a favoured television series or an interesting piece of cinema.

The choices are endless. And the women, well, the women are simply delightful.

Maybe I’ll watch an episode of House and wonder whether all doctors come with the looks of Allison Cameron (Jennifer Morrison) or the wit of “Thirteen” (Olivia Wilde). Reliving high school is as easy as popping in The O.C., where I can follow Melissa, Summer, and Taylor (Barton, Bilson, and Reeser) through their four years. And if I’m in the mood for sand and beaches, I can always spend some time with Kate (Evangeline Lilly) and Claire (Emilie de Ravin) on Lost island.

And then there are the movies.

I can spend time listening to the poetic ramblings of Juno (Ellen Page). I can fight despair and temptation alongside Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream. I can laugh at the deadpan humour of Zooey Deschanel in Almost Famous.

The list goes on.

The beauty of it is, not only are these women beautiful and gorgeous, but they’re funny, smart, and sassy. They wake up looking great, and they say and do things no real woman would.

Because, duh, they’re exactly that: not real.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because these women, they get me.

When the gorgeous Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) in Lost in Translation lies next to Bob (Bill Murray) and asks, “Does it get any easier?” — that’s the kind of connection I want. That’s the kind of relationship I need. But of course, I can’t have it.

There isn’t really a 24 year old, lost and confused, beautiful Yalie philosophy graduate named Charlotte. And even if there was, it’s doubtful I’ll ever meet her on a trip to Tokyo.

But that doesn’t stop me from hoping.

Real women are hard. Even if they have the looks of Number Six (Tricia Helfer), the intellect of Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel), and the sardonic wit of Lorelei Gilmore (Lauren Graham), they won’t know you. They won’t really know you.

It’s just not the same.

And so I go to work, I come home, and I escape in the company of these lovely — albeit fictitious — women. It’s escapism at its best.

I realize it’s sad. It’s humiliating. Wrong, even.

But there’s nothing I can do.

I’m numb, you see.

People keep on asking, “What’s it like in Oxford?”

In the future, I’m just going to refer them to this video by Scottish comedian Janey Godley, who’s terrific sense of humour is almost enough to outdo the depressing English weather. In this video, Janey takes an understated tour of Oxford, which includes Christ Church University College, the Shelby Sheldonian Theatre, and Hertford College’s Bridge of Sighs.

No mention is given to the other 37 colleges of the University (including my own), but it doesn’t really matter, because her hilarious encounter with eavesdropping scholars and French schoolchildren is so much more interesting.

What am I doing with my life?

Let me say it right now: Juno is the best film of 2007.

Ellen Page (from X-Men and Hard Candy fame) is Juno McGuff, a sassy sixteen-year old who — after taking three pregnancy tests to confirm — grudgingly admits she’s pregnant. After quick deliberation, she decides to seek adoptive parents from the ‘Desperately Seeking Spawn’ section of the Pennysaver, which leads her to Mark (Jason Bateman) and Vanessa (Jennifer Gardner), a seemingly perfect couple living in suburban paradise. Along the way, she’s helped by Mac, her supportive dad (J.K. Simmons), and Bren her step-mom (Allison Janney), and she tries to figure out where she stands with her boyfriend (Michael Cera).

As Juno, Ellen Page is just awesome. She’s cute. Down-to-earth. With a razor sharp wit and tongue, and an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture and history.

I bet it’s not easy. It’s not easy to act with such depth — going from charmingly sarcastic to helplessness and frustration, but Page does it. And how many actors can say a line like, “Bren, you’s a dick” with perfect comedic timing and gusto?

The movie is wonderful. That’s all there is to say. It’s funny, but not rude. It’s sweet, but not nauseating. And it’s touching — oh dear Lord it’s touching — but effortlessly so. I loved it. And you’ll love it.

And seriously, tell me: Where can I find a girl like Juno McGuff?