Well, it’s come to this. Weeks of worrying myself sick, losing weight on account of nervousness, studying until my eyes bled. When I woke up this morning I knew what I had to do. Lying flat on my back, my eyes opened and my mouth formed these words: “I must KILL the PCAT*.”
Determination filled the reservoir of my soul, where before that had only been despair and bile. The former blood that coursed into my right atrium was now iced water spreading from my aorta. I lovingly selected the weapons with which I would perform the brutal yet delicate act. Two semi-automatic pencils, fresh from the package, loaded with Number 2 lead.
Flash back to months of planning, of studying the enemy’s methods and anticipating possible maneuvers, possible scenarios. Months of anticipation for THIS day. Would I be the hunter or the hunted? The victor or the victim? My dreams of the past weak had been filled with a grim calculus, an anatomy of this murder. My waking moments fueled by chemical visions.
But that was all in the past. My vision was clear. My mind pure. Though I had hardly slept, I felt rested. I took my breakfast of peanuts and coca-cola as I sat in my car. Through my windshield, I observed the location of my quarry. Dawn broke. I put on my sunglasses, checked the safety on my weapons and walked into the dark glass building where the PCAT was waiting.
The PCAT feels no pain. The PCAT knows no fear. When you fight, you fight by PCAT’s rules. But it can be beaten. Many are happy just to escape alive. Many more would be thrilled to come out ahead, if only slightly. Not I. I meant to kill the PCAT. And to kill the PCAT, I had to become the PCAT.
Even as the candidate two rows down lost his nerve and began to dry-heave, I kept my cool. The test began. Of its own volition, my semi-automatic began to move and then to fire. Answer after answer. Half an hour passed in five minutes and round one–verbal ability–was finished.
There were six rounds. The PCAT can only be killed by taking critical damage in all six. My one-hundered-eighty pounds of flesh should be so lucky.
Biology came at me almost immediately, but was dispatched with the same ease–and with time to spare. Reading comprehension was the next to fall, but by this time, the PCAT knew that I was not the average opponent. PCAT called for an intermission, and we left the arena.
I returned to what seemed to be a whole new adversary. The next two rounds featured PCAT deftly wielding quantitative reasoning and chemistry. My heart kept a steady pace as I lifted my head, and began to battle afresh. Matching thrust for thrust, I disarmed Q.R.–but with seconds to spare! No time to regroup before the chemistry (which had haunted my waking visions!) was deftly brought to bear, with the business end pointed in my general direction.
Now, I admit, I didn’t escape unscathed. One does not do battle with chemistry and expect not to get burned, or at least singed on occasion. Nevertheless, I again beat out my foe with seconds to spare.
Phoenix-like, PCAT once again rose to challenge me. But this was to be a battle of wits. I had muscled my way through PCAT’s labyrinthine bubble sheet, but would find no more refuge among those small circles marked A through D. This test, was to be my greatest challenge, and my greatest triumph. The written test.
My handwriting, which even doctors consider illegible, was my greatest weakness. But PCAT hadn’t counted on my pen being mightier than my sword. Only the thrill of victory as I made my final stroke could have melted the ice back into blood.
But melt it did as I saw my foe, my enemy, my adversary, the PCAT draw its final breath and slump over in a heap. Dead. PCAT’s keepers quickly whisked it off to be revived, doubtless to torment thousands more like me, or rather, like me as of yesterday.
Fear not, young aspiring pharmacists everywhere. Though a powerful foe, the PCAT can be vanquished. As many have proven before me, and as many shall yet prove, the PCAT can be killed.
I killed the PCAT.
*PCAT = pharmacy college admission test
