Tunnel Vision

What do I want to be when I grow up? What do I plan on doing with myself? Who am I, and where am I going in life? Do I want to be a doctor? A lawyer? A drifter? All of the questions about the future make me want to pull my hair out. I don't even know if I would even get that far in life. I'm nearly positive that I won't be here in the next ten to fifteen years. Not because I 'm dying, everyone is dying, but because I'm so sure that I will go nuts before I hit twenty-five.

It's sad when you have such low expectations.

I look at the questions before me, and immediately I feel overwhelmed. Do I bubble A, B, or C? Is there a right or wrong answer? Everything looked and sounded like an opinion question, but I didn't know which was the right opinion to have. I felt like they, whoever they were, wanted me to think and act and be a certain way. I just didn't know which "way" that was.

Do I take the red or blue pill? Is there another choice?

I bubble C for every answer.

Looking over my test I feel less than satisfied, but I figure that if I actually try and take the test I'll have a mental breakdown.

Handing in the scan-tron to the teacher at the front of the room is nothing short of terrifying. I know she's going to say something. I can see it in the way her facial expression contorts itself into something resembling confusion.

She holds up the test. "What is this?"

I stare dumbly at the paper. Nothing witty or even relevant comes to mind. I tell her it's my test because it's all I can muster.

"I'm aware of that, Claire, but I want to know why you bubbled in the letter C for every answer.

C for close, C for cynical, C for creepy.

I don't say any of this aloud, only because I would sound crazy.

C for crazy.

"I know," is what I tell her because it's true. It's what I know.

"Do you care?"

Care also begins with the letter C.

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know."

Clearly, (another word beginning with C. It's funny how many words start with so many letters. Nobody ever pays it any attention.) she's about to give up on me. I can only expect Ms. Walker to take so much of my crap.

C is for crap.

She sighs and drops the test onto her desk. She rubs her temples. She looks stressed and I can't help but to wonder if it's all my fault.

"Okay then," she says. "Go back to your seat. I don't know what else to tell you."

It's just a stupid career aptitude test. It's not going to tell me anything I don't know.

I take my seat, knowing very well that my thoughts are doing me no good.

I put my head down.

C is for Claire.