I erase the tick marks to the side of each problem carefully. I brush the fuzzy little eraser bits off the page. I begin to stand up, but plop back down into my seat; that one question bubble I filled in looks more like a a square than a circle. EEE-EEE-EEE. My eraser squeaks Anxious, I turn my head to make sure I haven't seriously annoyed someone, then again brush away the eraser leftovers.
The Testing Center is so remarkably quiet, one would never assume that within the large, endless room seats hundreds of nervous college students--appearing quiet and collected on the outside, but screaming and sobbing like a little girl on the inside. Really, the whole experience is nerve-racking. No one in this building is happy, and the second you make their life worse, by tripping over their backpack or erasing a test problem with a very squeaky eraser, these unhappy souls begin silently plotting your death.
That's why I am terrified. I mean, I already want to begin sobbing since I'm taking a test for on information I don't ever recall learning and in a class whose name I can't even remember, and so these menacing souls, in this gloomy, silent building really aren't helping my emotional health.
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