[ WP ] You have failed your `` creativity '' test , which means that the government has decided you are not worth educating in the computer age . You will be unemployed for life .

``... *Forever?! *'' I was apoplectic. Apoplectic is a hard one to get right. 
 
 Yes, for the remainder of your natural life. 
 
 The readout beeped and blinked in midair, accompanied by a benign, utterly uninteresting cartoon face, like a three-pronged electrical outlet. It's voice, too, was benign, utterly inoffensive as it attempted to pronounce a death sentence upon me. 
 
 `` Because I failed?'' 
 
 It's true, the test I turned in *had* to be failed. 
 
 It was perfectly blank, after all. 
 
 It is the Proctor's required response to tell you that it is not a statement of your value as a person. 
 
 ``... Just my *value*.'' 
 
 Yes. As you can not provide the needed creativity, we can not permit you to continue in our education facilities. 
 
 `` Right. Damn you, you bastards.'' 
 
 Obscenity is permitted at this time. This is considered a `` CLASS-A Life Stressor''. The Proctor will not hold it against you, nor make any note in your file for the next three minutes. 
 
 `` Of course it is, you motherfuckers. You *stupid* motherfuckers.'' I continued, feeling a dangerous sense of dark glee, knowing full-well that it could be lying. I did n't want to take that risk, of getting too inventive with the insults. 
 
 You will still receive the mandatory food and shelter, as alotted by law. But, you will not be allowed to work in any megacorporation creativity farms, nor have your tastes informed by the most recent aesthetic template guides. 
 
 I nodded carefully. `` Oh, God. *What a nightmare*.'' 
 
 You will no longer have the opportunity to make a product incrementally influenced by your will. Nor will you be allowed entry into this year's Artist-Mandatory `` FREEDOM IN DESIGN'' conference. 
 
 I carefully concealed my smile behind my hand, and attempted to look inconsolable. `` Oh, no! What will I do now, now that my immediate needs are met, and I have no opinion or taste to rely on but my own?!'' 
 
 That is not a query the Proctor is equipped to handle. 
 
 `` Right. Ok. I am going to go home now, and feel like a failure because I am not a profitable artist.'' I said, as precisely as I could. I stood up, and walked away. 
 
 I'd come close. *Too* close. I should n't have turned in that test that way. It was a risky move. But, of course, the machine had just dutifully taken it, smoothed the wrinkles, read my name, and made the assessment. I do n't know why I worried so much. 
 
 As I walked, the breeze of my passing caught the paper, resting on top the console, and wafted it gently to the floor. 
 
 And, as it twisted in the air, it curled back partially into its original origami, a flying dove. 
 
 I did n't look back. 

