Oh dear. Another tale of woe from me When I met my ex, I was in foster care. I was a very confused 17 year old, and she took an interest in me, and we would talk about all my problems with my own family, and everything that was going wrong with me. I even 'came out' to her at one point. We spent a lot of time together and gradually, I thought I might not be gay after all, as I had feelings of love for her. Eventually, we started dating and I tried to suppress my gay feelings. Eventually, I proposed. We were engaged for just over a year and I got married at the age of 19. I have to admit, when the wedding plans got firmed up and much closer to the date, I started to feel that I was in fact still gay but so much money had already been spent, and plans made that I was too afraid to pull out. Don't get me wrong, I still love my ex wife a heck of a lot, but as my very best friend. I hate to use the phrase, but with everything that has gone on with me the last few years, she has been 'my rock'. We separated after about 8 years, when our daughter was 7 years old, and I told her why. I just couldn't go on living the lie. I hate myself for doing it to her. Selfishly, I wouldn't change things though, as I have my daughter and I love her, and I love being a parent. We had 'Unexpected Song' played as she walked down the aisle at the church; the lyrics really summed up how we felt about each other and how we had gotten together Unexpected Song Michael Crawford YouTube. How long did the relationship last? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. About 2 years. B. About 10 years. C. not enough information D. About 8 years.
B

Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. When did Malone smell the French Market? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. As soon as he saw it. B. Before he saw it. C. Once he was in it. D. not enough information
B

Q: He had a 12" Sony black-and-white, tuned to MTV, sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. He could barely hear it over the fan in the window. He sat in the middle of the bed because of the sag, drumming along absently to Steve Winwood's "Higher Love." The sticks were Regal Tip 5Bs. They were thinner than 2Bs--marching band sticks--but almost as long. Over the years Stan had moved farther out over the ends. Now the butts of the sticks fit into the heels of his palms, about an inch up from the wrist. He flipped the right stick away when the phone rang. "Stan, dude! You want to work tomorrow?" "Yeah, probably. What have you got, Darryl? You don't sound right." "Does the name Keven Stacey mean anything to you?" "Wait a minute." Stan switched the phone to his other ear. "Did you say Keven Stacey? As in Foolsgold, Kevin Stacey? She's going to record at CSR?" "You heard me." Stan could see Darryl sitting in the control room, feet up on the console, wearing double-knit slacks and a T-shirt, sweat coming up on his balding forehead. "This is some kind of bullshit, right? She's coming in for a jingle or a PSA." "No bullshit, Stanley. She's cutting a track for a solo album she's going to pitch to Warner's. Not a demo, but a real, honest-to-Christ track. Probably a single. Now if you're not interested, there's plenty of other drummers in LA..." "I'm interested. I just don't understand why she wants to fuck with a rinky-dink studio like yours. No offense." "Don't harsh me, bud. She's hot. She's got a song and she wants to put it in the can. Everybody else is booked. You try to get into Record One or Sunset Sound. Not for six months you won't get in. Even if you're Keven Stacey. You listening, Stan?" He heard Darryl hitting the phone on the edge of the console. "That's the Big Time, dude. Knocking on your door." Who is Keven Spacey? Pick the correct answer from the following options: A. a trumpet player B. a guitar player C. not enough information D. a singer
A: C