MBTI high school

Chapter 64:

Chapter 64: Dramathmatics

The exam hall looks less like an exam hall and more like an experimental zoo run by a mad scientist.

ISTJ, INTJ, and ENTJ are already scribbling furiously, as if their survival depended on it. You’d think they were working on a groundbreaking theory of quantum gravity, when in reality the task is just to calculate the area of an isosceles triangle. The supervisor, puzzled, leans over a ten-line equation and whispers:

— Uh… you do know there’s a calculator, right?

The trio doesn’t even answer, too busy trying to prove that Pythagoras was wrong.

Meanwhile, ENFJ, INFJ, and INTP still haven’t made it past reading the instructions. With notebooks, highlighters, and sticky notes spread out, they look like they’re hosting an international conference on the metaphysics of fractions. INTP stares at her notes, still wondering if this was ever covered in class:

— Maybe I was asleep during that lesson.

ENFJ reads and rereads, hoping the answer will magically come to her:

— But I explained this theorem to INFP this morning…

INFJ, eyes shining, reads the first question like it’s a divine revelation:

— “If x tends to infinity… it’s a sign. I too must tend toward my dreams.”

The supervisor stops, sighs, and mentally notes: schedule a school psychologist for this one.

On the other side, ISTP has solved his own optimization problem: three hours left equals three hours of nap. He folds down his hoodie, props his pencil case as a pillow, and falls asleep so deeply he looks like he’s testing a new form of human hibernation. When the supervisor tries to wake him, he growls:

— Leave me alone… I’m running an experiment… on REM sleep.

ESFP, ISFP, and INFP tackle the multiple-choice section with the grace of resident artists. No checkmarks—only little hearts. ISFP even dares to use a pastel gradient. By the end, their papers look more like bohemian tattoo sketchbooks than math exams. Horrified, the supervisor mutters:

— But… how am I supposed to grade this? It’s pretty, sure, but… what’s the score for a rainbow?

Then come ESTP and ENTP. They stare at their blank sheets with the intensity of Greek philosophers. After five minutes of dramatic silence, one raises his hand:

— Excuse me… if 1+1=2, then… what does 2+2 make?

The supervisor drops his red pen, ready to resign on the spot.

Chaos reaches its peak when ENFP, who until then had been chatting with his eraser (“her name’s Gertrude”), suddenly decides to launch an improvised math startup:

— Guys, listen! You handle the integrals, you do the differential equations, I’ll pitch the project to the jury. We’ll file the patent, and in the end, we’ll raise funding!

The supervisor chokes on his water bottle. At the back of the room, ESTJ explodes:

— THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! THIS IS A NATIONAL EXAM, YOU TOURISTS!

She tries to establish a hyper-efficient production chain: one student copies, another proofreads, the third submits. It looks like a McDonald’s assembly line for exam papers.

Finally, the bell rings. The results:

ISTP is still snoring, drooling on his pencil case.

INFJ has turned his conclusion into a poem titled “The Equations of the Soul.”

ENTP has invented an “approximate” theorem stating that 2+2=5… if you believe in yourself hard enough.

ESFP asks the supervisor if their rainbow-colored multiple-choice test can be displayed in the library.

INFP has submitted a love letter addressed to variable y.

And ENFP slipped a business plan among his drafts.

The supervisors, pale-faced, collect the pile of papers. Only one thing is certain…
No one took the same exam.