Ques:Well we're not married (yet), but one time my boyfriend playfully spanked me. Hard. I know he didn't mean to hurt me, but I was mad about it all. Day. Long. I just couldn't get over the fact that he technically hit me! I started to consider things like, "Is he really sorry?" "Will he do it again?" "Should I leave him?" And gave myself reasons like "He didn't mean to!" "He's been apologizing all day!" "He was just playing!" "He meant to have fun, He's sorry!" Yet countered it with one simple statement, "Yeah that's what all abused women say." In the end, I felt the question that should determine whether or not I should leave is: "If I stop talking to him tomorrow and can never see him or speak to him again, will I be okay with that?" and the answer was "No", so obviously I shouldn't leave him. He is very well aware that I was considering leaving him, (I have a very strict 0 tolerance policy of abuse in my relationships, as I was abused terribly growing up,) and he still apologizes to this day, but he has certainly made it a point to never do that again. I definitely trust him, and he actually was being playful, but otherwise that has been the only "real" hitch we have come across. I mean, we argue, but that's only when either of us are mad, and it's usually over small stupid stuff. Like, really stupid stuff. We argued over traffic signs before, LOL. It always leads to me saying the argument is completely retarded and we drop it and just cuddle or something. Really not worth getting worked up about. Edit: Fixed some typos. I'm on my phone so my thumbs can't quite reach LOL. Question: Who was apologizing all day long? Options: - not enough information - The writer's boyfriend. - The writer. - The person who abused the writer growing up. === The correct answer is

Ans:The writer's boyfriend.
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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. Question: What was the doorman wearing? Options: - A white tank top - A tuxedo - A tracksuit - not enough information === The correct answer is

Ans:A tuxedo
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Ques:I was 14 at the time. My family and I took a family vacation to Tybee Island, Georgia. It is a beautiful place that I would highly recommend. I told my family that I was going to go find a port-a-pot. So I head off by myself. I'm in the port-a-pot, i'm in there for roughly 10 minutes. (you can assume what I was doing) I wash my hands and get ready to leave the port-a-pot, and I tried to open the door and it was locked. I'm claustrophobic, so I start to FREAK OUT. I started banging on the door, running into the door with all of my weight. Nothing was helping. I then start crying, I thought for sure that I was going to die. I knew it was the end, at the age of 14, locked in a port-a-pot, in 95 degree weather in the middle of a beach in Georgia. Looking back, i'm curious as to why my family never came to look for me, I was gone for like 30 minutes. So I'm banging on the door continuously, bawling my eyes out. Then a man opened the door for me, from the outside. He was about 6'3 with dreads about 12 inches long and weighed about 280 pounds. I ran out of the port-a-pot and jumped on the guy and gave him a hug and told him that I loved him and that he saved my life. I don't know how he managed to open the door for me, but I definitely know that my 14 year old self owes that man my life. I'm not sure where he is in life, or what he's doing, but I hope God is blessing him abundantly. It is definitely a funny story to tell my friends. Question: Where did the author get trapped? Options: - In the port-a-pot - In the hotel in Georgia - not enough information - In the ocean === The correct answer is

Ans:
In the port-a-pot
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