One Month Left Before The MCAT, Or Why I Have Turned Into A Bitch

I am not a naturally angry person; I'm much more comfortable becoming increasingly paralyzed by anxiety. But recently, everything has changed. Every heavy-breather, every person who gets to the front of the line and STILL doesn't know what kind of coffee she wants to order, every dirty pan in the kitchen sink, every pen that refuses to gush forth ink at the slightest press to the paper makes me want climb onto the nearest roof and shriek until my lungs give out. 

 a rough self portrait

To think that therapists spend trillions of hours a year trying to convince their patients to embrace their inner rage, when all those troubled people had to do was try and prepare for the MCAT.

I'm not sure what it is: the vast amount of information, the fact that no one around me has any idea what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, the vast amount of information, the pressure to succeed, the vast amount of information, or the vast amount of information. I mean, seriously, I'm pretty sure some dorkus sat down one night and was like: "just for shits and giggles, I'm going to try and condense four one-year classes into one six hour exam." It started as a joke. But suddenly the American Medical Academy of Whatever was all, "YES. Perfect! Exactly the sort of legal torture we've been looking for!" And the MCAT, with its fury-inducing confusing passages concerning selectivity for snail shell color and redox reductions, was unearthed from the underworld. And I wept. And I tore my hair. And I yelled at my mother. And I ate too many gummi bears.

 I am a neurosurgeon