A cry in the dark.

Last night I awoke alone in my dark apartment completely bathed in my own brine from a terrifyingly vivid nightmare involving Meryl Streep, a dingo and an infant. Oh wait, that was A Cry In the Dark, and it was a nightmare for a number of other reasons. Watching that scene over and over again (once I rewound it twelve times in a row, and each time I laughed just as hard as I did the time before as she flailed about shrieking "A dingo's got my baby!" like an escaped mental patient), I fall into a Zenlike state of almost supernatural bliss and exude the aroma smoldering sandalwood.

But no, this particular mental regurgitation was about work. It's been a while since I've dreamed about work, but with my impending transition to the Foreign Student Advisor position (T minus five days), it's been on my mind more than usual. Mostly, I am now remembering the hundreds of times when I was really glad to be able to hand something off to an advisor, and, uh, that's gonna be me at the receiving end of that white-hot diarrhea tornado in less than a week. You know, when people come in with issues like:

1) Hello! I've been secretly working illegally off campus for more than a year and I am being audited by the IRS. In addition, my dependent spouse has also been working, which I think is illegal for her visa status, and she's uninsured and is about to give birth to our seventh child, who we think may have rickets. My visa is expired, and I think my travel document expired too. I've been academically dismissed from my department for ethics violations involving downloadable term papers. I can't return home for fear that I will be executed via machete by a paramilitary death squad in a steamy jungle. Also, I bought a car and now I can't register it because I need a Social Security number, but I can't get that without legally working . I also think I may have contracted a parasitic load at a locally owned Amish buffet. Can you help me?

2) Hi! I am applying for a visa in two week's time, but in the interim I will have undergone gender reassignment and will apply in my new gender. I also come from a country that is so dangerous that it doesn't have an American Embassy or consulate, so I must carry my child on my back across a three-mile-high mountain pass and illegally enter another equally hostile but oil-rich country where I will wait in line for ten days for a visa interview. If I haven't died of exposure, I will need to submit proof that I intend to return to my country of origin, but due to the fact that I have three fatwahs issued against me, I have no intention of going back. If they find out I have done this they will stone my elderly parents in the streets like rabid dogs. Do you have any advice?

3) How's it going? I was born in W, I am a permanent resident of X, I am a dual citizen with W and Y, and I am about to marry someone from Z. This morning I dined upon chilled lamb marrow and some Orangina. Two weeks ago I had a growth resembling the profile of Abraham Lincoln removed from my inner thigh by some guy who does same-day surgery out of his van, which is parked in the Marsh parking-lot. My middle name means "chinchilla" in a language I have never spoken. When I was thirteen I watched my best friend get devoured by an anaconda. I enjoy collecting tiny ceramic animals, but most especially hummingbirds, one of whom came to me in a dream and told me I was secretly their queen. When I was born, I was clutching a shiv I'd fashioned out of one of my mother's lower ribs. Can I apply for curricular practical training?

Truth be told, though, I prefer the "faucet" kids to the "toothpaste tube" kids. The faucet kids, once you tap them, tell you everything you need to know and way, way more, most of which makes you dance inside. The toothpaste tube kids need some squeezin' every now and again, and by "squeezin' " I mean "stabbin' " or "squirtin' ", depending on how precious the information is. The best, though, are the "just one more question" hostage-taking angels. I'd much prefer the truth. If you are going to keep me from doing something else or helping another person for a half-hour, don't give me the hope that the end is in sight. Just lay it on me. Tell me that you have forty-seven questions and I will begin subtly slashing my veins under the desk. Oh no, don't mind how blanched I look; I had a rancid frittata for breakfast.

The sad remnants of Hurricane Dennis are hovering overhead, shrouding those of us ensconsed in the Republic with a lingering mist and providing enough of a low-pressure trough to make me see merry little stars in the corners of my peripheral vision. My sinuses are filled with what seems to be industrial epoxy of some kind and the skin on my hands is flaking off in sheets, mostly between my fingers. And, perhaps most alarming of all, I just managed to get the song "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister in my head. Since there are no landforms to speak of to fling myself from, I shall remain alive.

Well, that, and I have a pumpkin to attend to as well.

I remain, as ever,

Dom