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: He probably thinks the cars driving by might mistake him for what? Options: - not enough information - old man - young professional - college kid === The correct answer is
college kid

(Question)
I was 35 weeks pregnant when I had my stroke. For weeks prior to the event I kept experiencing 'visual disturbances.' I felt when I was reading a newspaper or book a sense that my eyes were crossing. I'd feel aware right before it would occur and I would rush to look in a mirror only to discover my eyes were not crossing. I informed my OB who blamed it on the blood vessels in my eyes enlarging due to pregnancy. Ummm ok. You know more than me. Later I was told by a surgeon what I was experiencing was 'textbook' for the passing of blood clots through my occipital area of the brain! The feeling would eventually subside. I awoke one morning feeling 'kind of fuzzy' headed. Like I had slept too hard. I sat with my husband at the kitchen table for our morning coffee and newspaper and for no reason I could imagine I was unable to swallow my coffee and it dribbled out the left side of my mouth. My husband asked me what was going on and I apparently told him, I was 'stroking' out. He got up from the table assuming I was OK and went off to take his morning shower. While in the shower it occurred to him something might not be right. He came back to the table where I was struggling to lift myself from the chair. I put my hands on the table to lift my body and my left hand kept sliding off the edge. He finally got behind me and tried to lift me under my arms and I crumbled to the floor. He then called my OB and told him he thought I'd had a stroke. My OB immediately expressed his doubt but my husband was advised to call an ambulance to get me to the ER. I never really experienced pain from the stroke. Question: What did her OB think was causing her eyes to feel crossed? Options: - reading newpaper - Blood vessels enlarging due to pregnancy - visual disturbances - not enough information === The correct answer is
(Answer)
Blood vessels enlarging due to pregnancy

Ques: The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there. I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray. I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value. I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened. "Dingo." "Hey, Luna." Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage. She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. Question: How long did the narrator wait for Luna to open the door? Options: - a couple of hours - immediately; no wait - not enough information - A couple of minutes === The correct answer is
Ans:
A couple of minutes