Someone recently made mention on my Facebook wall about having to take the senior test at 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning up at Truman State University. This brought back painful flashbacks of my experience with the PRAXIS exam, at the same time a year prior.
Well aware of the test that Saturday morning, I did what any college student would do in the same circumstances: get hammered the night before. I was soused, topsy turvy drunk. The test didn’t really have any bearing on our degree, and in my efforts to have as much fun up at school as physically possible, drinking was a safe option. I don’t recall the occasion, or whom I even drank with, but I think it is safe to assume it was a very dumb idea, and wrecklessly irresponsible.
At 6:30 AM the next morning I woke to my alarm, in the living room of my house, still fully clothed from the night prior. I just got up and walked to Violet Hall, where the testing was taking place. As I stepped foot in the school building it occurred to me that I was still very much so intoxicated, as was dually noted by some of my classmates that came within a few feet of me. Poor form, Peter.. Poor form. I made it to my designated classroom and began the test in blissful oblivion, questions about the process of painting in the 16th century and random ceramic terminology, this was going to be a breeze.
Cue hangover.
Oh no. Oh God, no. The cold sweats started. The delirium tremors made filling in bubbles with my number 2 pencil harder than answering the questions themselves. I could feel hot vomit bubbling up my esophagus. I gathered my dignity and strength and shuffled to the front of the room. “May I please use the restroom?” “Sure, but we can only let one person out of the room at a time, you’ll have to wait until the other student comes back.” Son of a bitch. I know that hangover-sickness comes in waves, so I focused my attention on my test. The wave approached again, and the cold sweats were my sign to go to the bathroom. I got up and shuffled to the front again. “Can I go now?” Oh no, sorry, someone else already left to go. You’ll have to wait again..” Well, this is it. I was going to vomit all over this very quiet sterile classroom where people were intently focused on a test that determined their future as a teacher. Since I had no intention of becoming a teacher this test meant nothing to me other than experiencing a painful hangover the likes I would normally have slept through.
Then the door opened. I made a beeline to the bathroom before I had even reached my desk again. Halfway down the lobby towards the restroom I vomited in my mouth. Not just a little regurgitation, but a full blown chunky vomitus that I somehow contained in my mouth. As I drop kicked the door open, I let fly a projectile spew into the nearest receptacle, which just so happened to be the paper towel trash can. I couldn’t even make it to the toilet. I just unloaded in that little metal trash can like I had the bubonic plague foaming out of my face. Sweet relief.
As I stumbled back into the classroom reeking of disgorged beer and whiskey, I took a seat and lay my head down. I was abruptly woken by my classmate kicking me, pointing to her test and then to the clock. It would seem that I passed out for over an hour, snoring and burping. This left me a paltry 20 minutes to complete a test I had barely made a dent in. I finished my test just in time to hand in my answer sheet then rush back to the bathroom to vomit, in a toilet this time. The bathroom was now full of test takers who hushedly giggled at my retching. As I emerged from the stall wiping my mouth, people looked at me witha mixture of disgust and amusement.
“Tough test, wasn’t it?” I muttered. This roused more disgusted looks and a few laughs.
The beauty of this whole scenario was not only did I finish, despite my hangover and vomiting, but I passed with flying colors. I did very well, and others in my class didn’t pass at all. Truman gave me the the tools I needed to become one of the school’s most functional alcoholics.

