I finally give up my attempt at creative visualization when I see Lawrence of Arabia waving at me from atop the cliff. I relax my one ambulatory muscle, and drift off into semiconsciousness. This is, she tells me, because I had said that my chest hurt. While she is greasing my chest and attaching electrodes to my nipples it occurs to me that it was probably most serendipitous that I had never mentioned the dull ache in my posterior. I pass my test, none the worse, unless you count the seven or eight graphite covered hickey's now decorating my thorax.
More time passes.
People scream less and less. The shift changes. I check my watch. I'm laying semi nude under a sheet, taped to a piece of wood with a cold bottle of my very own urine sticking into my side. This is not how I pictured my morning.