Fuck yeah

The test was grueling. Three hours long, starting at 8:00 in the morning.

Let's bear in mind that I haven't seen the light of day before 9:30 am in about six months. But I did it -- I woke the fuck up at 6:30 so that I could have a leisurely breakfast and coffee like a normal person, instead of leaving myself 15 minutes to take a shower and drive like a bat out of hell to get to the test center in time, which is my instinct.

I wasn't nervous at all until I set foot in the test center. It was sterile, and the waiting room looked like that of a dentist's office. I wasn't allowed to keep any of my personal belongings with me, including my sweater, so I felt like a naked little fawn, trembling and yawning uncontrollably as I waited for my name to be called to begin.

The first section was kind of a warm-up -- essay writing. But the second two sections, quantitative and verbal, were kind of like slowly driving burning stakes through each of my eyes. I sat staring at questions, knowing that the answer was simply not within my grasp, for ten minutes at a time. With each question I couldn't anwer, I became more and more certain that I was ruining my future, that I had now officially become a complete fuck-up by not studying hard enough. Fortunately, I was so focused that I didn't have time to worry too much about the impending irreparable damager I was doing to my life.

About two hours into it, the guy sitting next to me -- who had almost not been allowed into the test because of some problem with his I.D. -- apparently became just as agitated as I did. As I struggled with antonyms, he began tapping his pencil on his desk. In a room where there is no other noise, the tapping of a pencil is like Chinese water torture. I lightly tapped on our shared cubicle wall, so as to kindly remind him that there were other people taking the test. He stopped for a second, then began again. Just as I had mustered enough righteous indignation to lean around and Say Something, he stopped again.

Thank God. But not ten minutes later, this asshole calls over the proctor, and in the middle of the complete and utter silence, begins a conversation with her in full voice. I waited, and waited, for him to realize the error of his ways. He didn't. Kept talking. Finally, I leaned around my desk and stage-whispered, "Stop talking over there! Jesus!"

Anyway, by the time I was done with the test, I was over it. I had completely fucked it all up, clearly, and was going to fail and never get into graduate school and therefore never have a shot at any career that doesn't involve being naked. That's cool...I mean, I can handle stripping forever (i.e., until age 40). But sweet jesus, praise be...at the end of the test, I hit "receive scores," and what do you know - I got a high enough score to get into the schools I'm applying to.

Unprecedented joy, followed by the burning desire to get the fuck out of that place as quickly as humanly possible. I grabbed my shit and ran out the door. I wanted to go home, celebrate, and never fucking think about fractions or algebra again.