Ürdibehişt.

ooor-dee-bay-HEESHT: Persian: February.

Today, at 5:30 on the nose, Kemal hocam quietly turned from finishing writing the months of the year in a script that hasn't been used since the 1800s with his reeking wipeboard marker. Domonic'ciyim, he said, barely audible. Let's end here. Thus ended a bizarre chapter of my life; one in which I tried to understand a language so hopelessly complex that those who have studied it for decades would never in a thousand years' worth of daring say that they were fluent in it. It was humbling. It was expansively fascinating. And, when I didn't want to bite my own wrists open in sheer animal desperation, it was oddly rewarding, like when you manage to scratch a part of your back you can't usually reach. Yes, that random collection of squiggles reads "akbaba." No, you can't use "kef" when writing the city "Konya". Yes, the fumes from"Wipe-o" markers can make you feel as though you are the rightful incarnation of the Panchen Lama and may prevent you from successfully transmitting your genes into the future.

When French was over, I internally celebrated like I was being liberated from Treblinka; today, as I walked to my sexmobile (Orhan, my rainforest green 2000 Ford Focus), I dragged my feet a little. There's a part of me that will miss the misery of trying to figure out what goddamned vowel to put into a seemingly random collection of consonants. There's a part of me that will miss horsing around with Kemal about how fiendishly difficult his beloved texts are. Then I remember: three and a half hours of Ottoman on innumerable sunny Friday afternoons. I bought two nobake cookies and, as their chocolatey goodness coursed through my lardo veins, I knew I'd never forget what I learned with Kemal; namely, that I can do anything I want to do, even when it seems darkest and there can be no hope.

Ok, eww. Lifetime: Television for Women moment. {cue smarmy piano music}

Hmm. Lifetime. Now, don't get me wrong, it's affirming and empowering for those possessed of two "x" chromosomes, but I honestly don't know how. Every time I turn it on, it's a movie with a title like "He Raped Me Blind and Slaughtered My Children" or "I Had Bulemia So Bad I Threw Up My Spleen on My Best Friend's Birthday Cake." One time, I watched a movie (whilst imbibing, of course) wherein Candace Cameron ("DJ" of Full House notoriety) was stalked and murdered by Fred Savage (of The Wonder Years) and then her hacked corpse was thrown into a body of water of some kind in a Hefty Bag.

[Alert Life in the Corn Reader Prize: Name that Movie!]

The other day, I was reminded that the things that come out of my mouth tend to be... well, let's just thank Krishna's blue skin that I am usually surrounded by people who love and understand me. About two months ago I was talking with one of my coworkers about her workload, and she was telling me that she was weary of starting every email with "I'm sorry I am getting back to you so late"; this was due to the fact that her email inbox had more than a hundred "urgent! I needing the help so soon!" missals. I told her that she should just begin her emails with "Now that I am back from my gender reassignment...." and that would take care of it. I said this out loud. What the eff is wrong with me?

It's to be a long night. I fell asleep watching reruns of "Everybody Takes a Dump in Raymond's Mouth", but now I am awake, hyper, and listening to strange movie soundtracks whilst preparing a small woodland creature for his trip to meet Pan, his maker. After all, in merely forty-eight hours, I will be taking my final final, and if I choke, I will have to give myself to Honkers the Underthebed Clown.

Somewhere in the dark of an Indiana night in a township named after an ancient Iraqi city-state, a turn-of-the-century farmhouse sits empty, the spring winds whistling through the stubbled cornfields that surround it on three sides. I've never wanted anything more. Keep my luck in your thoughts, my minions, and I shall reward thee with Paradise!*


*Or, uh, my thank-you.

I remain, as ever,

Dom