That night, I dream that I am at my old high school. I walk into a familiar classroom, slump down at a desk and look down at an exam booklet. The sum total of my knowledge and preparation for this test adds up to Zero.
I feel sick as wave after wave of anxiety rolls through me. I flip through the booklet in hopes of a couple of essay questions, the kind I can usually punt. I don’t see any. My mouth is dry and my hands begin to sweat.
I hear a voice drone, “Reminder, people, your performance on this test is worth over half of your final grade.” I have a C going into this, if I fail the test — I may come out with a D at the end. But if it’s a low C, an F might give me an F in the class. And if I get an F, I may not graduate. I hear my heart rate speed up.
“You may begin now.”
Aargh! I CAN’T DO THIS, I shout to myself. And then I wake up. I stay perfectly still and breathe deeply a few times until my mind grabs onto reality. And that is just one of the ways that spam has shortened my life.