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.

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?

In my last post, Give us a chance, Hollywood, I griped about how asian men are continually snubbed in movies and shows, never allowed to play it out in interracial romances.

My friend Dave — bless his jealous heart — pointed to Daniel Henney.

A google search later, I came across this.

It turns out that Mr. Henney has done quite a few commercials with the very lovely (and might I mention, very white) Gwyneth Paltrow.

See? It’s not so bad.

Come on, Hollywood!

Stuff like this makes me mad.

Because it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Where, oh where, does that put asian men?

See, asian women have gotten a few breaks over the years. Michelle Yeoh got her mack on with Pierce Brosnan in Tomorrow Never Dies. And Maggie Q was Timothy Olyphant’s sexy partner-in-crime in Die Hard 4.

But when will Hollywood cut asian guys a break?

Surely someone out there finds us marginally attractive. And surely, somewhere out there, in Hollywood-movie land, there’s some desperate and dateless white (or god forbid chocolate-y) girl who’s willing to settle for ’sloppy seconds’.

Today, I did the unthinkable.

I did something I said I’d never do.

I joined Facebook.

Yeha. I did. I can’t go back and undo it now.

facebook

“Suddenly, when all your friends have been reduced to teensy avatars, canned quotations, and endless ‘favourites’ lists, they don’t seem quite as special as you may have once remembered them.”

The problem with Facebook is that it’s sort of like having a relationship with a cheap hooker. Or at least, how I always imagined it to be. It’s cheap, quick, and I suppose, the overwhelming sense of satisfaction afterwards is enough to override any residual feelings of guilt you may have had going into the whole mess.

On the other hand, there’s nothing particularly special about it. In the long run, it’s just not that satisfying.

There’s an uncomfortable disconnect when you use Facebook. For one thing, the site is designed to shed light on people’s personal lives. It’s suppose to reveal everything you’d want to know about your friend, your friend’s friend, or (more likely) that girl you met the other night. It’s supposed to connect people.

But because the information is so effortless and so unkempt, it fights against the very purpose it was designed to do!

It becomes impersonal.

Suddenly, when all your friends have been reduced to teensy avatars, canned quotations, and endless ‘favourites’ lists, they don’t seem quite as special as you may have once remembered them.

So I’m updating my profile and I see several options about Current Relationships.

I frown very slightly, check ‘Single’ (because I am), and check all the boxes under ‘Looking for…’, which includes ‘Friends’, ‘Relationship’, ‘Dating’, ‘Random Play’ (play what?), and ‘Whatever I can get’ (what does that mean?).

Hey, I’m not picky.

Immediately, a cutesy heart shows up on my profile along with, ‘Phil is listed as single’.

What the hell?

It’s not that I’m not single (I am), nor is it that I’d be terribly disappointed if I were to catch the eye of say, a gorgeous, leggy girl that mommy would wildly approve of. It’s rather the fact I want to be able to say, “Phil is listed as single but…”

I need that ‘but’.

That ‘but’ is the story of my life. That ‘but’ is so I can tell riveting stories about my tragic singleness and my unyielding search for Ms. Right.

The ’single’ part — pssh — that’s just the title. The ‘but’ part, that my friend, that’s the journey.

The bottom line is, we all have our own wants and needs. We all have intriguing stories to tell and life-defining experiences to relive. But what’s important is that we should all aspire to tell it our way.

Facebook is like that girl who comes to the party dressed in the low cut blouse, skirt showing off everything, and well, wearing nothing much else. You know who I’m talking about.

She walks in. We all gape. Eyebrows hit the ceiling. Jaws hit the ground. And that’s about it.

Because, really, it’s just a turnoff. When someone goes to such lengths to bare all, there’s nothing left of interest. There has to be an air of mystery. There has to be room for imagination.

Facebook, with it’s cheap, fast, easy, and naked virtues is that kind of girl.

So why — why in the world — would I do it?

Why would I join Facebook?

Because I’m a fucking hypocrite, okay?

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve totally searched all of y’all.

So I know that you know that I know that you’re on Facebook, too.

Now go ahead and add me so you can entertain my pet polar bear, Sprinkles.