Question: That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning. Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed. "Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream. Sometimes I hated those girls. "Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? "Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?" My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. According to the above context, answer the following question. What is the state of the ashtray after the end of the conversation?
OPTIONS:
- half full of butts
- cleaned
- still full of butts
- not enough information
Answer: still full of butts

input with options: When we got married we thought it was going to be all bliss and happiness for life. By about week two we both had an awakening. Something about being exact opposites and together 24/7. We clashed about something so important I can't even remember what it was. We hadn't really ever had that happen while engaged. Suddenly we realized that the bliss and excitement was growing into, well, everyday life. And all that passionate romance that had driven our relationship was growing, well, less passionate. We both realized our marriage had entered a new phase, one of many, through the years. And we needed to be much more purposeful about making sure it worked. Purposeful because the blinding emotional love some days seemed to be asleep. Yet, we both had committed to our marriage. For better or worse. So we decided we had the potential for either. We needed to make it better or it would become worse. We learned to really talk. Even when it was difficult. We learned to argue without hurting each other. We purposefully expressed love even in those times we didn't especially feel it. We built romance into our relationship even when we didn't feel romantic. And through the years our relationship has grown. Sometimes through difficult times. Heck, sometimes through difficult eras. Yet, we both never gave up the dream of making our marriage great. We never gave up the ideal of living together in love for a lifetime. And because of that, through all the trials and triumphs. Through all the frustration and bliss. Through all the sameness and romance. We still everyday enjoy our love and each other. And can't imagine life without the other. Well actually, there have been probably a couple of those days for my wife. She's just too nice to say it. A great marriage isn't built because it's perfect. Only because you keep trying to make it perfect. According to the above context, answer the following question. What kind of example will their marriage be for others?
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Their constant fighting will scare others away from marriage.
- Communicating better probably won't save the marriage and will not help others.
- They have committed themselves to actions that are a good example for others.
output: They have committed themselves to actions that are a good example for others.

Q: It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. According to the above context, answer the following question. Immediately after the end of this text, Barend is:

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- dead
- sick
- a murderer

A:
a murderer