I think that one of the people who caused me the most misery for the longest was someone that I'll call "Luna". So, most people have probably met that person that acts all suicidal and then uses that against you. For example, you're talking to someone like that and you're having some sort of argument and the moment they realize they aren't winning they send you pictures of their bloodied wrists and say "This is your fault". Well, that person was my friend for a long time. Every time I would try to leave her to go to sleep she would threaten to do "something bad" and I knew what she meant, and me, first meeting her when I was around 9 or 10, and I was still extremely naive. So most of the time, I ended up staying awake til 3 AM on school nights and I would get only a few hours of sleep, and she'd be happy because her life wasn't worsened at all. But I think the thing that made me the most miserable, was the fact that it never got better. No matter how much I talked to her, or how sympathetic I tried to be, or how much I tried to convince her to be happier, it never got better. She still acted super depressed, but like it was a joke. All of these things combined to make me completely miserable because it seemed like it was all for nothing. But I just let it happen, because she was the only person I had and she was really my only "friend" at that point, and all the way up to seventh grade. So for that entire period of time, she certainly wasn't the only source of misery for me, but she made me feel way worse than I would have if I hadn't been friends with her. Question: Why would the author only get a few hours of sleep? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- She was naive
- She stayed awake til 3 AM
- She was afraid Luna would do "something bad"
She was afraid Luna would do "something bad"

Benedykt Ossolinsky, age 39, began to grow childish. On the first day of his midlife crisis, he stood in front of the mirror examining his receding hairline and wrinkles on his face. In that very moment, while staring at his reflection he found in his eyes that mad look he had last seen thirty years ago in a photograph taken at a tethered flying model competition. The photo was taken by Henryk the servant, when his little charge decided he wanted a red biplane model Curtiss Consolidated Skyhawk Cruisader 3A "Bingo Star". This new look was also noticed by his co-workers, who for the most part, considered him to be an infantile spoiled brat. It fit with their idea of a boss. And Benedykt was indeed the boss, even though he himself couldn't quite believe it. He was the head of a foundation for the self-promotion of the Ossolinsky family, well-known descendants of Polish-American aristocrats, engaged in business ventures there, and charity work here. The position was highly honorable and very prestigious. Just as the employees didn't like Benedykt, in equal measure Benedykt didn't like his job. He considered it extremely stressful and felt it forced him to super-human sacrifices. Everything was arranged by the family as a penance for avoiding work. He had to go to the office at least three times a week for two full hours and entertain various smiling journalists, drink coffee with them and listen. He had to sign letters and open gifts from various companies hoping to win favors. And he had to play golf and attend social functions, movie premiers, shows and art exhibits. The family had only planned for three months of vacation time a year. Scandal! As a sign of protest he took to coming to the office wearing a t-shirt with the slogan "Attention, Baby!" on it. Question: Benedykt has to work: === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- as much as most people
- not enough information
- less than most people
- more than most people

Answer: less than most people

The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. Question: What does the narrator believe might be true? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- He would never get out
- not enough information
- He might be crazy
- They could sleep
He might be crazy