(Question)
Rain, the young man is thinking. Of course it would be raining. Not a heavy, cleansing rain that leaves the streets steaming and the neatly sculptured yards lush and fragrant. This is a gray drizzling rain. A rain that makes him think of places like England and Scotland as they appear in those disturbing late night films on cable, the ones in black and white that weren't particularly memorable when they were made and are even less so now. Still, it rains and the air is cool. All he has to shelter him is a think nylon jacket. The jacket is soaked. It feels both chilly and coarse against his skin. His hair hangs in flat and sodden wings, falling into his eyes. It's long in the back, almost to his shoulders, and he thinks that the cars that pass him on the street, the occupants of those cars, might look at him and see only that he is wet and not that he is dirty as well. Can they tell that his hair has been unwashed for days? That his clothes are the same ones he's worn for more than a week? It doesn't matter. He's invisible to them as soon as they pass, taking any assumptions they might make with them. They might just mistake him for one of those hoity-toity college kids, one of those clean limbed and beaming have's who has happened to find himself caught out without his umbrella. He makes a desultory attempt to straighten his shoulders, to lift his eyes from the buckled sidewalk. To look like he might have a purpose or a destination. It doesn't help. He has become the day. He has internalized the environment. He did that years ago, in fact. That's all I can do. Not his words, of course, but he understands them. He is intimately acquainted with his limitations. Question: Why was the young mans jacket chilly? Options: A. not enough information B. Spilled his drink on it C. It is soaked with rain D. He dropped it in a puddle === The correct answer is
(Answer)
C

(Question)
I will never own a Chanel suit. It is unlikely that I will ever own a (genuine) Chanel handbag. However, a Chanel nail polish was definitely attainable. Whilst they are ridiculously expensive compared with most other nail polishes ($AU39), they are still much more affordable than the $AU1,000,000,000 a handbag costs (or so I estimate as I have never actually priced one). After seeing swatches of Peridot online, I knew that baby would one day be mine. The other two polishes in the collection - Quartz and Graphite - did not excite me the way Peridot did. That was until I read this review of Graphite on the Polish Police. Suddenly, Graphite was on my radar. It was stuck in my head like an ear worm; another baby, soon to be adopted. I argued with myself for about a month on whether to get these polishes or not. Could I really spend nearly $80 on nail polish. It did seem rather excessive to me. Then, Myers sent me a $10 voucher for my birthday and I got a $30 voucher for doing a survey so the decision was made. For $38 of my own money (less than the cost of two OPI's!) I became the proud owner of Peridot and Graphite. Here is my review of Graphite. Graphite is the most stunningly intriguing nail polish I have ever owned. In the bottle it looks a little bit dull and boring - grey and bland. But on the nail it is completely different. In some lights it is silvery, others a more gun metal grey, and in others it has almost a goldish tone to it. It is super sparkly, yet is not a glitter polish - though in saying that it appears more glitter than shimmer. It is quite opaque. Two coats and you can't see the nail line. In the photos below I have actually applied three coats (plus an addition two top coats of clear) because I was going to a wedding and I wanted it to be perfect. But ordinarily two would be sufficient. Question: Who argued with them self for about a month on whether to get these polishes or not? Options: A. The writer B. Myers C. not enough information D. Chanel === The correct answer is
(Answer)
A

(Question)
Cerberus just stared at me. The dog didn't blink, he didn't pant, he didn't move. He just sat in the passenger seat as I drove, relaxed, mouth hanging slightly open, looking at me the way someone examines a menu but can't decide on the chicken or the veal. The desert sky was on fire when the city came into view. Cerberus turned away from me and stuck his head out from the side of the jeep, his giant tongue flapping in the eighty mile an hour wind while I dialed Luna's number. The dog pulled his head back in, then rested his chin on top of the overhead roll-bar, his fur blowing back along his head like the spines of a porcupine. "Hello?" "Hey, Luna." "Dingo! Are you there yet?" "No, not yet. I'm just outside the city." Vegas flashed and blinked under the starless sky. "You get in touch with Mr. Waciejowski?" "Sure did. He's at the Denny's near the Excalibur. He's trying to stay away from the blackjack tables." "Yeah, good for him. He has the box?" I could hear Luna stuffing something disgustingly healthy in her mouth. "Mmm hmm." "He hasn't opened it, has he?" She swallowed. "Nah. I told him it was filled with old photos." Cerberus shifted in the seat and scratched behind his neck with such force that the whole Jeep shook; a rather unsettling motion at 80 miles an hour. "Hey Luna, I've got a question for you." I looked over to see the dog's nostrils flared out in the wind while his lips blew back and revealed his frightening set of teeth. "This, uh, this animal spirit guide you had me try to find. Do they ever show up, you know, in person?" Question: What color dog is Cerberus? Options: A. not enough information B. Black. C. Red. D. Brown. === The correct answer is
(Answer)
A