I have a chronic illness, and so I received quite a few sterling gems in the months between onset and accurate diagnosis. I had one GP let's call him Dr Douche. I promise, it's the kindest way I could describe him. "The jacket means I know things." He came up with wilder and wilder theories as to why I was sick, and kept getting sicker. It should be said beforehand that few of these theories were embodied. He was sure it was something in my ladybrains that was preventing proper function of the rest of me. Dr Douche said so much weird, wild, and just-plain-unbelievable crap over the course of my diagnosis that someday I may create a novel that incorporates it all. But this here has to be the blue ribbon winner. I was describing a symptom to him: every time I got up in the morning, when I first stood, my heart would pound, my heart rate would accelerate, and I'd feel dizzy. After a few probing questions (only in the morning? no, but it's worst in the morning) "Maybe," he said sensitively, "you're afraid." "Of standing?" I asked, just to be sure. "You think I'm afraid of standing up." Maybe he meant there was some kind of existential fear, like, we're all afraid, it's a big old universe out there, and he wanted some comfort and reassurance. Nope. The man genuinely thought I had such a profound fear of verticality, that I was having a near-panic in response to being upright. POTS, folks. It was POTS. Literally THE most common sign/symptom/syndrome of autonomic dysfunction. The most common one. He could've confirmed right there in the office with a poor man's tilt table test, if he knew to Mayo Clinic had to confirm with expensive instruments because he'd never heard of a disease that affects 1/100 teenagers and between 13 million people in the United States! Would've done better with this Doctor. When did the man find his true diagnosis? A. before talking to Dr. Douche B. after going to Mayo Clinic C. not enough information D. after talking to Dr. Douche
B

(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. The narrator says A. He has been wearing his clothes for a day B. He has been wearing his clothes for a week C. He has been wearing his clothes for 4 days D. not enough information
(Answer)
B

Ques:I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance. The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head. I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident. "No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest. "I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face. "No dice." I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera. "Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera. I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. Who was blocking a doorway? A. the doorman B. not enough information C. Dylan D. Maxwell

Ans:
A