Is that a HB pencil?

Don’t know quite where I am, have an idea of what I’m supposed to be doing but all of the four options seem like they could be correct (unconditioned stimulus). I eat the perfectly ripe yellow banana, even though the smell of banana this early in the morning makes my stomach heave. But it’s brain food, and it’s sad you dropped yours on the floor (Bobo doll experiment). I had stressed dreams, thrashing around like a malfunctioning egg beater and waking up with my mind racing. We’d gone underwear shopping and she’d told me I ought to lose some weight (fixation at the anal stage).

The sun was trying to beat away the clouds, freezing wind whipping at the tops of uncovered feet. He’d scowled in disgust at the nicotine clouds blown in a perfect stream from your lips, but really, why on earth was he compelled to ask you if you wanted to join a gym? (fovea) The days blend together and the battle with the umbrella takes precedence (Mrs. Boles) when superstition dominates (Stanley). The man with the kind face gave you two marshmallows (Cesario); the sour-lipped woman in the op shop begrudgingly docked $3.50 from the final price (assimilation) and the passerby with an expression full of pity and horror clicked their tongue at the figures huddled in front of the window, howling and shrieking over the wind (le subjonctif).

Listen to the sound of hundreds of anxious voices bouncing off the concrete, finding their way into the cobwebbed corners that are neglected in the absence of the Spring Racing Carnival (is Sebastian really dead?). I walked through a puddle and now my socks are wet, this takes priority over my concern of not understanding Orsino’s motives in marrying Olivia. It was like an airport lounge, and as the distressed buzz dimmed (les pronouns relatif) I was horrified to realise the horseshoes printed on the carpet were facing the wrong way. How were they going to catch any luck? How were they going to catch my answers as they spiraled out of the ends of my frizzy hair, wet with the drizzle? (Cattell’s 16 Factor Personality Test). I closed my eyes and imagined Space Invaders, ricocheting past and exploding where the carpet met the tiles. We were numbers. At least English is our first language, I remember saying (reliability). At least we’re not left-handed, so everything we write doesn’t become smudged as our hands race across the page (validity). At least it’s only two hours, not three (cross-sectional). Why were there so many clocks? It would be so silent, surely the ticking would drive us all mad? (longitudinal) As if to support my theory that the desks should be facing the other way, we can see out onto the racecourse. I can hear the crack of a starting gun (factor analysis), the snap of gates being pulled back (Darwin’s theory of evolution) and the thunder of dozens of hooves churning up the soil (separation anxiety). I hear the nasal commentary of the race, which fascinated me at a young age (the id). How do they speak so fast, Mum? (positive reinforcement).

I remember where I am, and what I should be doing. Those who are absent are declared to be so via invasive red sheets of paper, with cruel letters stamped across the front (rationalism). The person sitting next to me is feeling as though a 25% chance isn’t enough to see him through (Descartes). He oozes dismay as the 10 minutes of reading time tick past on the labelled clocks (negative punishment). It’s contagious! (extinction).

I spot his identical twin on the other side of me. I read a question about noses (I think it’s functionalism) and become fixated trying to spot the differences in their appearances. Are thy really related? What are the chances of identical twins doing the same subject, in the same course, at the same university? Wouldn’t they be tired of sharing space, sharing attention, sharing faces? (synapses). I can’t turn my head fast enough to spot them. One is potentially more red-headed than the other, they have slightly different haircuts, perhaps in an attempt to seize individualism by the horns and defy their shared DNA (projective tests). I feel sick from moving my eyes so quickly, I taste the banana that was supposed to help me (taste aversion therapy). And then it begins. And while I’m choosing A, B, C or D, I can see feather-adorned hats, and see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it is flickering slightly (You did not just compare a tunnel to a birth canal).

Don’t the voices sound different, without the anxiety laced through them, though they still bounce off the concrete and encourage us to make a hasty exit?