input with options: The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life. The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors. I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city. My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim. I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. Question: The narrator stopped at benches because === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- He was waiting for the bus
- not enough information
- He was extremely tired
- They were taking pictures
output: He was extremely tired

Q: I once went out to have fun with a friend of a different nationality, and she wanted to go to a place that featured the music of her culture. Since I have always been interested in other cultures, I was happy to go along. While we were sitting at a table together, an older man came up and asked to buy me a drink. I told him "no thank you, I do not drink". My arm was laying on top of the booth because I was sitting sideways since my big old pregnant belly would not fit under the table. He reached over and took my hand and said " Come dance with me then". I again told him I was not interested in dancing. He began to squeeze my hand and insisting I get up and dance with him. I kept telling him no, and pointing to my belly and saying I would not be dancing with anyone. He just kept squeezing my hand harder and trying to pull me out of the booth. I got angry when I felt something break in my hand and screamed at him "Get your effing hands off me!" The bar owner came over to see what the problem was. I explained that "this jerk just hurt my hand because I would not drink or dance with him!" The owner looked at me crying, and the man laughing, and kicked my friend and I out of the place! Seems the rude SOB was his best friend. I got a bad taste for places of that culture (although I do love the cuisine) and a broken bone in my left hand for my trouble. She and I never went out again because she was so embarrassed about what the guy did to me, but she did take me to the ER on the way home. Question: How does the pregnant woman feel about the rude man at the bar? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- the man was sick for hitting on a pregnant woman
- the man was aggressive
- the man was abusive and hurt her on purpose

A: the man was aggressive

input: OPTIONS:
- didn't care
- not enough information
- worried
- concerned Now, answer this question: I'm know 21 so I'm going to count that still as a kid because the world is still new to me. I work know security and one night at around 2am I walked in the bathroom because a customer complained about a man yelling in the bathroom. I told my partner I would go check it out by myself so he could stay and keep quality control of who comes in the venue. I walk in and in the first cubicle I could see lots and lots of blood on the floor and a pair of feet placed as if he was sitting down. I quickly go to the next cubicle asking at the same time if the person was OK obviously with no response. I look over and it was a horrible bloody mess. I quickly get on the radio and tell my partner to call police and ambulance and to put the place on lock down. I walk around to the from of the cubicle and kick open the door. The man had grabbed a straight razor and cut his arms extremely deep from the wrist downwards all the way to his elbow palms up. On both arms mind you. A good example of what it would look like would be the scene from the terminator 2 where Arnold cuts the skin off from his arm. The ambulance came and had to call another team to collect the body. The building was closed for around a day and a half they had to repaint and do all sorts of things because of so much blood. Ill say they do not train you for seeing such horrible things or even mention that it can happen I'm lucky enough to have a strong head and can handle seeing such horror. Of course Im not 100% OK from it and now keep a close eye on the bathrooms. But I'm OK enough to continue working and only saw a psychologist twice about it. So yea that's the worst thing I have seen In my life. Question: After what had happened, how did the writer feel? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: concerned

Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine rapee', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds... Question: it probably took a long time to make the poutines === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- a month
- a day
- a week

Answer:
a day