Generally, I'm a dynamo; but, predictably dilatory in studying for the GRE, my lassitude has become hypertrophic. The indigence of my vocabulary -- for all my orthographic skills -- is nonpareil (not to mention when the presence of polysemy, parvenu that it is, appropriates my putrid brain in the proceedings!). Will the test's invigilation succor my dolorous and diffused preponderance for cadging aid? Or will my attenuated memory -- arabesque in theandric imprint, mere striated scurf before the gods of ETS -- call forth a craven recreancy discomfited by the torpor of falsely mellifluous note cards? I am positively harrowed to the point of turgidity.
O that the dulcet wind of inspiration would wend my way when assayed next Wednesday: to my eminent lucubration, to the peremptory luculence of my edacious garrulousness, to the detumescence of my blithely supine mind in incorrigible sepulture. Apposite of nothing, vertiginously flaccid, could the closing circumambient walls prove exiguous enough to denude my protean potentialities of failure? Inconcinnity that it is, I am a votary of the process; I must simply ossify my feckless and deciduous churlishness until the auspicious moment when the winnowing hand of the screen placates the plangent puissance of my obstreperous will -- no timorous tyro here, only pellucid, sanguine volubility.