Self-control.

Yesterday I was waiting for the bus, freezing my hairy Italian "boys" off, when I overheard a conversation between two young women.

Ugg-wearing woman #1: So, like, my teacher said he's from Belgium!
Ugg-wearing woman #2: Ohmigod! So like, I've always wanted to go there!
UWW1: Isn't Belgium in France?

[Domonic begins to pray in earnest]

UWW2: Yeah, it's in the northern part!

You'd think that my world would have fallen in upon itself at that moment and I, under the weight of it would moistly implode; or that I, eyes wild and unblinking, would have accosted them as they stood there, shivering and bemoaning their glittery-haired fates by telling them that, indeed, Belgium is *GASP!* a whole other country altogether from France. Like, fer sherr! But instead I was transfixed by their footwear: giant, floofy boot things that were a pale pastel pink, much as the inside of a baby would be. And by "inside of a baby" I mean... never mind. Anyway, so the floofy boot-things. I wondered for a moment how many tsunami survivors you could feed by selling those Uggs that covered their cloven hooves; simultaneously, how much money could I make selling those girls into white slavery? I can see them in sackcloth, standing with heads on their perky bosoms, lice almost visible to the naked eye, as the hellish slavetrader shrieked: "Pearly skin! Childbearing hips! Never known a day of manual labor or temperatures harsher than the mall! She'll love you long time!"

I broke out of the trance as they hastened to their bus; with tinny peeps like freshly-hatched snake spawn, they continued their inane conversation until they, and the #3 Downtown bus, vanished from earshot and view into the concrete canyons and urban jungle that is Bloomington, Indiana. Would I have found those boots less offensive if they have been a sensible color? If they had been worn by a flannel-wearing John Goodman-esque lesbian with a tin of Skoal packed into her lower jaw? If I didn't know that it would take me half a month's stipend to pay for them, had I been filled with the Satanic desire to own a pair? Whatever it was, I'll never know, because my increasingly short attention span was captured by a young Asian international student trying to cross what is easily one of Bloomington's busiest streets at rush-hour. She'd get about halfway across before darting back to the other side of the road when a car came. For an insane moment I thought of that old arcade game, Frogger, wherein you guide a poorly-animated amphibian from one side of the road to another (and safety). Mine usually ended up as road-pizza; with grim fascination I watched to see if she would fall upon a similar fate as she howled in Korean to her mate, who had made it safely to the other side and was gesturing to her as one would imagine Anne Sullivan might teach a marmoset Hindi sign language. Once upon the bus, the crazy didn't end; the driver of this particular #7 Shuttle Express bus was not only a heroin addict, as evidenced by how he took curves and the scabbed-over trackmarks on his arms, but was also a dirty hippie. He was folding 10,000 paper cranes for world peace: please, take one as a gesture of love and compassion for the world! The small basket proclaiming as such swung lazily from the coin-takey-place, filled to the brim with gaily-colored Japanese fowl. While he was distracted by the task of not getting a busload of college students pureed in a crush of metal, steel and Plexi-glass, I looked him over. Late forties, clean shaven, manicured nails, shiny shoes, pressed clothes. Not the stereotype by any means. Then I thought: maybe those cranes are soaked in LSD and he's not pulling a "Sadako-and-the-Thousand-Paper-Cranes" thing, but is hopelessly addicting us to a controlled narcotic!

So I took two, and when no-one was looking (on the old plantation!), I lathed my tongue on them. Hmm. Tastes like fingers.

Speaking of "things that are tragic, like mass graves", my second favorite international graced me with her presence today, andandAND did so at two minutes to four. Of course, my "favorite" international was the one who called me a liar, said that I had singled her out from all other students for my unique brand of punishment, and told me that she'd bring charges against me for breaching my contract, whatever the eff that means. All this over a Social Security Number, which, oh wait!, I couldn't have given her anyway. Anyway, my second "favorite" international had, at one point this summer, told me that I "should look for another job" because "I mistreated her" since, uh, I made her wait her turn to be served. It went something like this:

Cocaine-abusing international: [sweeps to the desk, cuts off a student I'd called to be helped, and grins like a child who's found a ready source of "fingerpaint" in their diaper]

Me: Hi! Have you signed in?

CAI: No! I don't need to sign in!

Me: Yes, yes you do. We keep track of the number of students we help every day so that we can better help you in the future.

CAI: [looks at me like I am trying to explain how to turn Grape-nuts into plutonium]

Me: Go ahead and write down your name and I will be right with you as soon as I help the people who got here before you.

CAI: [digs around in fanny-pack, retrieves piece of paper with some freaky-deeky language scrawled across it] I need to see Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx!

Me: Please sign it. It'll only be a second. There are magazines. There are chairs. If you're good, I'll give you some methadone. Now, please sit.

CAI: No! [slams down Hello Kitty pencase; other student whom I'd called backs away like he'd found a scorpion in his shoe]

Me: Miss, I can't help you if you don't follow the rules.

CAI: [bares yellowed teeth in a vulpine sneer] You don't like me so you won't help me!

Me: [reaches for squirt-bottle] I could have helped you twice if you'd followed our office rules. These other people are probably not really happy that you aren't following the rules and they are and you'll get served first.

CAI: [lunges at receptionist as she's walking by in the vain hope that she's Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx, she's blocked by the bulk of a 240lb New England-livin' flannel wearin' mofo]

Me: [calls to good student who has waited through the entire spectacle; no doubt he'd only wanted to pick up a certificate of enrollment]

CAI: [shrieks like a collie being torn apart by ferrets] You need to find new work! You aren't helping me!

{she flings her motley collection of human hair poppets, ginseng herbal tea face cream and her passport into her fanny pack; leaves the office flailing}

That day, I drank openly from the engraved flask I have taped under the front desk. As I felt for its liquid strength when I saw her again, she smiled sweetly and walked over to the sign-in sheet, gently took the pen and wrote her full name on the register and sat.

And she was the only one left in the office.

I thought: medication? Maybe she's gravid with ilk? I called her name (which, incidentally, I'd not known before for obvious reasons) and she came and folded her hands upon the faux-wood veneer of the desk.

What can I do for you today?

I'd like to make an appointment with the Dean, Xxxxx Xxxxx.

[clap of thunder]

Uh... can I know why?

Because I want to talk to him. (shiny, albeit brown, smile)

Well, he's a busy man, and normally he doesn't take student appointments unless he makes them himself.

{Visibly, she's holding back from breaking vocal cords screaming at me; my pleasure increases tenfold. I too can play this game, and I have the advantage: I have the squirt-bottle.}

Well, Xxxxx Xxxxxxx at the International Center sent me here.

[my bowels roil; maybe she actually does need an appointment?]

After fetching Judith, the Dean's assistant-person-thingiemabobber, we uncover the stark truth. I'd talk in length about it, but I want you to wonder for all eternity ALL ETERNITY! about why a woman--a woman who clearly is crazier than a shit-house rat on crystal--actually needed to talk to the Dean of International Services.

[torture!]

Anyway, crawl I shall back onto the shiny nail-bed of Turkish, and Ottoman, and French, but not before I beg you all, wherever you are, to sacrifice livestock in my name to ensure that I survive this semester.

As the blood elps, so are the Days of My Life! [cue crazy music and hourglass sequence!]

See you all soon, I promise.

Dom <--- punchy, cold and also, uh, punchy