Standardized Testing

I love tests. Especially those that evaluate my cognitive ability. Recently I took the greatest test I’ve ever taken.

I sat in the waiting room patiently. There is always a nice waiting room. Cushioned leather seats, array of light literature, an unintelligible amount of light jazz tickles the ear. And always some contemporary version of an archaic art piece. Robot farmers posing by their home, to insinuate that modernity awaits. I sat enjoying a copy of TIME magazine.

In a timid but reassuring voice, the practitioner called my name. She was young, younger than me. I enjoyed when this happened. Made me happy to know the youth were quick to find purpose, instead of aimlessly wandering the world. She wasn’t wearing a lab coat.

I wasn’t really listening, I heard it many times before. There was a large variety in the door frames the farther we went. It upset me greatly.

After I gave a full lecture in my mind, we made it to the room. It was a small room. If I had tried to stretch out my arms, I would’ve been constrained by the width. In the room laid solely a chair, a desk, and a computer screen. On a dry erase board were arrows and symbols. The practitioner had me sit.

“You got that?” She chirped.

I nodded.

“Alrighty!” She placed two buttons on the desk in front of me. One right arrow and one left, she said. Were they not identical?

All breath left me when she pulled out the harness. Complete with chin strap and cheek holsters. I began to squirm.This had never happened before.

The practitioner didn’t say a word. She was very gentle.

“I will turn off the light and leave the room. After I do so, the screen in front of you will turn on, and you will be met with an eye tracking calibrator. Instructions will produce themselves on the screen. Any questions?” She walked out of my field of vision. I heard the door close.

It was much larger than I had originally gauged it to be, the sheer brightness of it caused me to squeeze my eyes shut. I almost tore my face away.

You will see a row of five arrows in a row. In some of the cases, the arrows will all be facing the same direction, in others the middle arrow will be facing opposite. With each case you are to press either the left or right button, depending on which direction the middle arrow is facing. Press both buttons to continue.

I placed each of my hands around each button, careful to not apply enough pressure. A black dot danced across the blank sky. The screen transitioned, 5 crosses became visible in the very center of the screen.

“Keep your eyes focused on the crosses.” The voice came from somewhere.

Five arrows appeared rapidly in unison. I unfocused my eyes to see every arrow. They disappeared. I pressed a button.

I repeated this process.

It’s time for a break. You are at an accuracy of 100%, with an average response time of 2.76 seconds. Press both buttons to continue.

I pressed the buttons.

The next set of rounds were smoother. Then my hand slipped.

The screen flashed red. I had to do better.

My eyes glazed over. I couldn’t figure out why I was doing what I was doing, or why I was doing it.

My hand slipped. I adjusted my face in the harness. I shut my eyes once and let them rejuvenate their moisture. That was the last mistake I would make.

The crosses began to oscillate. I squinted my eyes between rounds. To make sure I was not losing my touch. I assured myself this was part of the experiment.

I thought I might vomit. I persisted. I was no longer in a room. The screen became more and more distorted. I felt my face become sucked into its heavy draw. I tried to scream. I tried to blink. I tried to do anything. Colors filled my eyes. I felt like I could see them. My hands seized.

left, right, left, right, right, right, right, leftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleftleft.

The test is now complete. Thank you for your participation. The practitioner will return to the room shortly.

She helped me get to my feet. “Thank you for participating in this study, your results and data will be very beneficial for our analysis. Do you have any questions?”

My mouth was so dry.

“What was the purpose of this test?”

“An analysis of your attention span while completing tedious remedial tasks.”

I thanked her for the time.

It was dark when I left the building. It was small. Smaller than I remember.

-

It was a peaceful night. There wasn’t a car around. It was the time in the evening where all the nearby lights became present. Enough to see faint striated outlines of buildings. I turned around the corner to where I had remembered my car to be parked. There was a song stuck in my head that I had never heard before.

Pantwetter

My best friend in high school was named 127 Hours Guy. Like that one movie with James Franco. Except mine was the original.

He was the best of his kind. Long curly hair. Like curly fries. I loved him dearly.

He appeared in the toilet. He shot up through my asshole and out of my mouth.His voice reminded me of Ronald Mcdonald.

“Now son, why are we here flushing away our sorrows like a sad little baby while there’s so much for us to explore!” His arm was missing.

I was young and knew nothing about struggle or canyoneering so I screamed so loud with a big ol’ shriek before he concealed me with his dirty finger and gave a big ol’ shush.

“I’m sure you are screaming so baby-like cause of my arm. I must assure you there is nothing to be afraid of. This is the totem of my bravery,” A little bit of blood blew from his stump as he shoved it towards my face. “I hear life’s got you down.” He was speaking the truth. For months I was the plaything of the top three bullies.

127 Hours Guy pulled down a projector slide and spent the remainder of the lunch period explaining to me his struggles, and how through enough internal discipline and Honest-To-God hard work, I too, could cut off the arm that keeps me severed.

-

One time he came with french tea sandwiches. He made them himself. One time he made me turn off the light for some ice breakers. Persistently he visited me but everytime I came with the same results:

“Nothing has changed.”

“Have you tried cutting off your own arm yet?”

His faux-religious zealously turned to closed fits. He’d punch the toilet seat and threaten to call up James Franco.

“Do you know what it’s like to cut your own arm off? It’s like slicing an overcooked piece of pizza over and over.”

I started holding in my piss. It led to a nickname. Pantswetter.

I finally set him straight after he wouldn't stop drinking toilet water.

“I’m done with you, 127 Hours Guy. I need to fend for myself.” He stomped up and down like a toddler. “Do you even know who I am? Do you know the people I could be spending my time with instead of you? You’ll never be anything more than a pantswetter. Where do you think the school kids got that one?”

He grabbed the tank and smashed it against the wall. With the largest shard he cut his other arm off. Then his leg. And the other leg.

And I left him there. A stump screaming at me to buy his book if I ever wanted to learn how to survive on my own.

I looked it up years later and turns out he was arrested for domestic abuse, so who really won?

1/15/26

Rats

The rats kept getting out of their cages and into the raisin bran. We fired John soon after. He was the only one who ate raisin bran. The experiments were trivial. We cut zippers out of jackets and clamped them to the cage, doused them with chemicals, and classified the different ways they could unzip.

We settled on four categories:

1. Haste. Like when you're about to have sex.

2. Suave. Like James Dean

3. Morose. My personal favorite. Like when your jacket is the only thing giving you comfort, forced to be released.

4. Not going for the zipper at all, escaping the cage, and finding the nearest source of raisin bran.

After discovering the latter, the rats had no interest in zipping or unzipping at all. Their entire feeble existence became focused on escape. We tried swapping out the rats, but they seemed to all be in communication.

The best part of my day used to be watching their little paws sullenly grasp a zipper. Now my eyes hurt from staring at them constantly, and pushing them away from the latch. In a board meeting I had suggested that we refocus the study on the different ways they attempted escape. It was shot down immediately. Something about optics and shareholders.

I was a glorified vermin babysitter. When people asked me what I’m doing with my time, I lied. I began to notice changes when it came to zipping up my jackets. I even tried to demonstrate to a group of rats how I liked to zip and unzip. Smoothly, with an edge of mystery, like even I didn’t know what was underneath.

-

The box juts slightly out of my pocket, giving my step a new gait to it. I hope no one will notice. The last board meeting had me walking aimlessly in the street. After some slight petulance and erratic annoyance from the head of the board, I discovered what we were really doing with these rats.

Now you would think as one of the scientists I would not only know, but be deeply situated. This is not the case with firms like ours. You get data and send it off. That didn’t keep me from guessing. I had it whittled down to something with motorskills, to allow paraplegics some grace when it came to their morning routines.

I was wrong. We just made zippers. I told my sister the company and she knew it well, which I took as a bad sign.

My answers must have been timid and rushed, as I had a crowd of my coworkers behind me asking politely to stop. It was too late. The gait got more noticeable. Their questions turned to statements. I locked the door behind me, met with pleas. I took the box out of my pocket and walked to the cages of rats.

It was a symphony of chirps. A metropolis. They each looked at me with what I can only describe as pity. Those beady little wonders. Like olives. Or caviar.

I ripped off the lid and let jagged contents pour. Watched as they all scurried towards it. Their little paws no longer looped in metal, now full of the finest raisin bran I could find.

1/8/26