BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BE-

It was exactly 5:34 in the morning. I knew it because the alarm clock I'd had for the last seven years of my life would always ring forty-three seconds before it was supposed to, and so I had trained myself to wait for exactly three and a half beeps to turn it off.

I pulled myself out of bed and felt around for my glasses on the bedside table. Placing them on the bridge of my nose, I blinked twice before my vision came into focus. I had exactly twenty-five seconds to get into the shower if I wanted to stay on schedule for the day. And I could not afford any delays.

A typical shower took me three minutes and twelve seconds, but if I wanted to wash my hair it would take an additional minute and twenty seconds. This was due to the fact that conditioner had to stay in your hair for sixty seconds after application. It said so on the back of the conditioner bottles, and I wasn't one to argue with hair experts. It must have been working, because I was thirty-five and was fortunate enough to not yet be losing hair like many of my colleagues. They, no doubt, did not follow the instructions on the back of their shampoo and conditioner bottles.

After my four minute and thirty-two second long shower, I dressed in under a minute and walked to the kitchen to check my messages while I ate breakfast. Multitasking was always a huge part of my day -it was easy for me, and it made sense to do two things at once to conserve time. Humans, on average, only live for eighty years. If there are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, that means that each human has only 29,200 days to spend. Why waste even one of them?

The blinking light on my answering machine indicated that I did indeed have messages that needed listening to, which was interesting because it didn't blink too often. As I pressed the button, I busied myself with my breakfast. I had the same thing every morning -oatmeal with various fruits and nuts. It was high in protein, low in carbs, and took less than two minutes to prepare. As I chopped strawberries, I heard Iggy's voice issue from my answering machine. "Hey, Fang. Really sorry to bother you, but I'm going to be out of town on the twentieth and I need you to take over my lecture on PDD at the public school for me. I knew you'd appreciate an advance notice, so here you go. Thanks again, man."

The answering machine beeped, and before I could consider Iggy's message, a different one began, this time from my mother. "Happy birthday, Nicholas! I'm sorry to not call earlier, but I assumed you'd be busy with your research... Anyways, your father and I wanted to know when you're planning to come home to celebrate; I've already bought the ingredients for carrot cake -your favorite!"

I waited for a few seconds before the light on the answering machine went out, my mouth full. Perfect timing -I dumped my bowl in the sink and headed out of the door for my morning jog.

I could deliver Iggy's lecture for him, but there was a minor problem -I knew nothing about PDD; not even what it stood for. It sounded like a psychological disorder, which wasn't in my scope of research at all. It wasn't that big of a deal -the twentieth wasn't for six days, so I could research whatever it was during lunchtimes and develop a coherent lecture before then. But the timing was very annoying -in order to become an expert on the subject, I would also have to give up the sixty-four minutes I had previously allotted during each Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday evenings to clean my bathroom.

Which left me with three options.

1) Skip cleaning the bathroom to work on the lecture. Not very appealing to me, as I would then have to be subjected to the multiplication of germs all over my bathroom faclities, which would increase risk of infection of some disease or other, which would throw my entire schedule off for many weeks.

2) Ask Iggy to just do the lecture himself. Also not appealing because he was one of my four friends and I didn't want to make him angry. Besides, he had done so much for me during our friendship, and I was sure I owed him this favor for something or other.

3) Clean the bathroom after working on the lecture, which would result in less than eight hours of sleep, a shift in my Circadian rhythm, and a loss in overall mental and physical performance. However, this seemed like the best option at the time.

I finished my morning routine of jogging, loading my bag, and biking to the university without any hitches or delays in schedule, and subsequently I arrived exactly three minutes before the Dean herself arrived. I was locking my bike to the rack as she walked up to me. "Hello, Professor Newton."

I straightened quickly and remembered to make eye contact. "Hello, Dean Winchester."

She smiled rather coolly -perhaps I didn't shake her hand like I ought to have? But it was too late now -she was already walking up the large stone steps to the university. I followed, keeping my distance. I had never managed to get the Dean to like me -or even smile at me. I didn't know how Iggy did it -but then again, he was one of the most charismatic, socially competent people I knew.

I stumbled up the steps and entered my immaculately kept office. I checked the clock on the wall to find that it was 7:59 in the morning. I was one minute early, which irritated me slightly.

Arriving early for me is a waste of time. There are so many other things I could be doing -like cleaning the bathroom. I shook my head and laid my messenger bag out on the desk. I had barely even begun to open it when I heard a knock on my door.

"Fang Newton!" Iggy's loud voice preceded him into the room.

Everything about Ignatius Jefferson is big and loud -he's nearly seven feet tall and thickly built too, as he was a former football player at his alma mater. He's got bright red hair that his wife often jokes about being visible from outer space. While I don't believe that's physically possible, I do have to concede his hair is very noticeable. It's thinning a bit, but what forty-five year-old's hair isn't? He's the director of psychology at our university, which means his office is a lot larger than mine, which means he doesn't knock over things in his own office like he's prone to doing in mine.

Iggy insists that everyone call him that; from students to colleagues to even esteemed professors. In fact, I haven't heard anyone call him Professor Jefferson in a long time. It was he that actually nicknamed me Fang, because he said something about my bite being worse than my bark. And now all my four friends call me Fang, so I have him to thank.

"Hey, Iggy," I said, acting casual. I tried to lean on my desk but I overestimated the distance between my body and the mahogany top, and I ended up nearly falling. Iggy just laughed.

"Always the same, huh, Fang?"

I shrugged. "What brings you here?"

Iggy dropped his loud voice to a loud whisper. "Well, the wife and I were talking about a double date, and she reckons she's found the perfect woman for you this time."

I like Ella. She's my age, ten years younger than her husband, and she's a clinical physiotherapist, although she acts as a regular therapist to her family and friends. She and Iggy are my two friends who are not related to me. Her cooking is superb as well. But lately, she has also taken on an additional role as my personal matchmaker, which hasn't been working out so well. I think she should stick to her job of being a friend; it's not necessary for her to also be a matchmaker. Especially because I seem to be incompatible with every single woman in the universe.

"I don't think the fifty-seventh time's the charm," I said plainly, and Iggy's face furrowed.

"What're you talking about? She hasn't set you up with fifty-seven girls!"

"Fifty-six, actually," I said. "And yes, I have. I can recite all their names to you in alphabetical order, if you wish. Abbie. Amy. Angela. Brooke. Cindy. Daphne. Darcy. Esmeralda. Eve -"

"Woah, woah, woah, there, mate," Iggy said, rubbing his eyes. "You're bullshitting me."

Annoyed that he interrupted my train of thought, it took me a few seconds to respond with a third-grade answer. "Am not."

"You haven't actually memorized all these girls' names, right?"

"Along with their star sign, favorite color, favorite food, and favorite episode of M*A*S*H." I said.

He blinked and then grinned. "Wow. Okay, Mr. Database. Shoulda expected nothing less of you." He rolled his eyes. "Just say yes this time, okay? Ella reckons she might be a good fit for you. It's not going to be another pistachio ice cream." he said.

I winced as he mentioned it. The Pistachio Ice Cream Incident happened with Ella's sixteenth match -a sweet girl by the name of Lissa. I was thirty-four when the match happened, and she was thirty-two but tried her best to look younger. She was conventionally attractive, with thick dark red hair, bright eyes, and a pretty smile. She was a biology teacher at a local high school, and our conversation naturally turned to the developments in the world of polymerase chain reactions for a while. We had dinner at a strongly recommened Mexican place near the school where she worked, and we were still going strong by the time dessert rolled around. That was when she said,

"I don't much like Mexican desserts."

I paused for a moment, wondering how I could save the day. I didn't really want the night to be over, for it wasn't very often that I found someone so interested in genetics as I, so I was saved when I found a Baskin Robbins across the street. "We could go for ice cream," I said casually.

Lissa considered this, and to my relief, nodded after a moment. "Only if they have pistachio ice cream."

I was pretty sure they'd have it, considering that Baskin Robbins boasted on having 31 distinct flavors. Upon entering the store, I realized that they only had twenty-nine flavors in commission -the ones out of stock being Rocky Road and, of course, the elusive Pistachio. I gave the teenage girl working behind the counter a besmirching glance, for she had failed me, and said, "Do you have anything that tastes like Pistachio?"

Lissa's eyes rolled as I mentioned this, but the girl held up a tiny spoon of Black Walnut, which I handed to Lissa. She didn't even put it in her mouth. "It won't taste like pistachio."

"Well, obviously it looks different, but the basic flavor is the same," I said, trying it myself. "They both have a nutty base -"

"I think you have a nutty base," Lissa muttered, crossing her arms. I could sense the coldness radiating from her, or maybe it was just from my own brain freeze. Either way, I had to do something drastic to save the night.

"I'll take a scoop of Black Walnut and a plain vanilla, please," I told the girl behind the counter, who got busy making the orders. By the time I turned around with the ice cream, Lissa was gone.

Needless to say, Black Walnut became my new favorite ice cream flavor.

Iggy's loud voice brought me back to the present. "Fang! Nick! Professor Nicholas Newton!"

I jerked out of my reverie. "Huh?"

Iggy smirked. "So are you coming or not?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. There are appproximately three and a half billion women in the world, so the chances of Ella's 'Perfect Match' actually being the perfect match for me is miniscule. And that's even if you factor out the women that are separated by geological distance relative age, cultural and language barriers -"

"And whether or not you've already gone to town on them," Iggy interrupted, and I grinned ruefully. "Well, since that's clearly a no, I'll let you get to it. Grading papers." Iggy winks at me and is about to walk out the door when I stop him.

"Wait. I'll do it. But you have to at least tell me what PDD is," I said, remembering his voicemail.

Iggy smirked. "Remember my thesis paper on the autistic spectrum? The huge-ass, 400-page-long mammoth of bullshit? I'll have someone deliver it to you. And be sure to dress up for tonight -none of that Stephen Hawking stuff." He gestured to my Tuesday shirt -a picture of the Andromeda Galaxy superimposed over a Stephen Hawking quote. The past, like the future, is indefinite and exists only as a spectrum of possibilities. I don't think the quote makes much sense but Ella gave the shirt to me as a gift for my birthday, so I adopted it as my Tuesday shirt.

I didn't have any lectures scheduled until the afternoon, so I decided to use the time to grade papers. Recently I had my class write about the effect of calcium deficiency on the growth of week-old embryos, and most of the papers so far had been quite... interesting to read. I began grading, which was monotonous work, and so it allowed my thoughts to drift elswhere.

I drifted to Ella's matchmaking project, or as she called it, the Girlfriend Project. Ever since I met Iggy and Ella three years and three months ago, she had been trying to set me up with women. Women she knew, women Iggy knew (because he had slept with them), and women she had even advertised for on Craigslist.

To prove my own point, I pulled up a Craigslist ad Ella had put up a few months ago for me, and although she had decorated the paper with flowers and wonderful pictures of scenery, it still sounded ominously like a kidnapping message. Looking for a smart, humorous girl who also likes to have fun!

And then it hit me. The Girlfriend Project was failing because there were usually no precursors for the women Ella selected -they just had to look presentable and not be complete drug addicts. If my dating experiences had taught me anything, besides how to duck when a martini flew at me at 60 mph, it was that I needed a very specific type of girl to suit me. There had to be a way of weeding out the good from the bad. And what better way to do so than a questionnaire?

Pushing my student's papers aside, I felt fresh adrenaline release from my suprarenal glands and course into my bloodstream as I began to type on my computer.

I kept typing, excitement flooding through me, until it was nearly lunchtime and I very carefully saved the document I had been working on. I always ate lunch with Iggy unless he happened to be 'consorting' with someone else in his office. Iggy and Ella had an open marriage, and Iggy exploited it to the max.

I was eager to tell Iggy the progress I had made on the recently renamed Spouse Project, but today I was not lucky; Iggy was busy helping a professor from the humanities department analyze the psychological effects of Holden Caulfield's actions in Catcher in the Rye, as his secretary told me, so I retired to the courtyard by myself. Pulling out the Japanese miso soup and salad I had bought on my bike ride to the university, I ate as I watched a family of ducks swim in a perfect V across the pond.

I pulled out a paper from a rising star in my class -Dylan Haas. His family had recently emigrated from Austria, and he was studying biomedical engineering to become a doctoral technician. He was extremely bright. Even though his papers had a few grammatical errors I could forgive them because English was his fourth language or so and he had the speaking ability of a seven-year-old.

I read through Dylan's paper, nodding at his wonderful insight into the prescription of injective medication for the lack of calcium and the side effects that posed, and was about to award him top marks yet again when I spilled soup all over the paper.

Ten minutes later, I was outside the Dean's office, heart thumping, clutching Dylan's still-dripping paper to my chest. The door opened and she frowned, not unkindly, but in a way that made me think perhaps I should leave -but it was too late. I sat down in the chair across from her desk. Even when I was sitting down, I was still almost taller than her -Deah Winchester was a short woman, probably around 45, height about five feet two inches. She sat down across from me.

"Professor Newton, what brings you here?"

I placed the soup-stained paper on her desk and she winced. "It's Dylan Haas," I said, before she could say anything. "He's been... plagiarizing."

She squinted at the paper. "How do you know?"

I pointed to the fourth sentence in his twelfth paragraph. "That sentence was taken directly from a paper from the graduating class of 1995," I said. "He's clearly plagiarizing, and our policy regarding plagiarism is that we don't tolerate it at all."

The Dean blinked. "So you want me to expel him?"

"We have to uphold the rules," I said, although my insides squirmed. "Why have them, otherwise?"

The Dean sighed. "Nicholas, I'm sure you know what a lovely student Mr. Haas is. Top marks in all his classes. He's one of the students who raises this college's reputation. To expel him for copying one sentence out of a twenty-year-old paper... it's just madness. Surely you agree."

I blinked. "We have to uphold the rules," I repeated. "That's what gives the university prestige."

"I'm sure I can decide what gives the university prestige," the Dean snapped. "You're a very diligent person, Nicholas. Most others wouldn't have even caught this... error. So we'll let Dylan off with a warning this time."

"But -"

"That's enough," Dean Winchester snapped, and I backed out of the room, taking the plagiarized paper with me.

As I walked back to my office to prepare for my lecture, it occurred to me that morality was one of the biggest things I expected in a woman. For that reason, I was sure the Dean and I would not be compatible in any way. If she was willing to bend the rules to save face, who knew what else she would be willing to do?

I pulled out the pencil I kept stashed perpetually behind my ear and began scribbling on a piece of paper. I had to thank the Dean- she had given me inspiration for Question 1.