Blogspot, soiled teenage girlfriend.

I got up at 6:30AM to take a motherfucking test. The people who had shown up to take the MCAT were alarmingly attractive, as if the hospitals of tomorrow were primed to be backup sets for ER. The Kaplan practice books had somehow implicitly led me to believe I would be vying with trolls, so the impending competition with people with cheekbones more statuesque than my own came as a shock.

Our test was administered in the largest room of a high end Boston hotel. Desks were arranged with creepy precision as tacky chandeliers swung eerily above our heads. As students flooded in, the space came to resemble a cross between the ballroom of a haunted cruise ship and the lecture hall Albert Speer never got to design.

Our proctor, a high-strung Indian doctor, took his sweet time reading instructions. In fact, he spent so long handling administration that I sat in that room from 8AM to 7PM. At one point, people needed to pee and wanted to leave the room. In response, the proctor lifted his hands and, in exasperation, and began swatting at an unseen assailant. I couldn't help but see his resemblance to the dark priest from the second Indiana Jones movie. Let these promising minds be a sacrifice to the almighty Kali-Ma! Let me remind you now that everyone's a little bit racist.

I sat in front of two kids with heavy Bostonian accents, the Massachusetts equivalent of Jersey shore-trash. Nonetheless, as they discussed matters such as the renin-angiotensin system and complementary RNA interference, I realized that they were clearly the most intelligent shore-trash to whom God ever saw fit to grant life. It was unclear whether I should have been impressed or repulsed.

Finally, as a note to prospective test-takers: Before a major exam, do not listen to catchy pop music. It is clear to me now that the poor performance I forecast for myself on the biology-organic chemistry section should be attributed to Stephin Merritt and the French girl from Ivy. Damn you, Dominique.