The dumbest thing that actually worked? I joined Tinder. Reason I say it was the dumbest is because I still acknowledge that it's not my kind of dating scene even though I ended up meeting the love of my life through the app. Other than that? Nothing was wrong or dumb. I have done nothing much because the man I am currently dating sent me a superlike after I was on the app for less than 12 hours. I joined, created profile, went through possible matches, and then went to bed. I didn't have enough time to do something dumb. Now my boyfriend on the other hand was on the app for 45 months prior to me joining and him finding me. His story is that he had been in there long enough to end up matching with some bots (robots that somehow end up joining or hacking the app. I have not a clue how) that he would have conversations with to test if they were legitimate people. He would also match with different people who would either immediately block him because he came as weird or he would block them because they came off as weird. When he found me, what he saw in my profile was that I was local, I was a legitimate person because I knew someone that he knew through Facebook, and I had multiple pictures of myself that looked genuine. I also had a description where I stated my intention for using the app which was that I was looking for a serious relationship. What he did after I connected with him was talk to me and then test me as the conversation progressed. How did he test me? He told a corny joke which I laughed to. If I hadn't have found his joke funny, he probably wouldn't have asked me out on a date. I hope that answers your question. I know it wasn't very. eventful. According to the above context, answer the following question. How long have the two been dating?
OPTIONS:
- 6 months
- not enough information
- 5 years
- 3 years

Answer: 6 months

Shortly after five, the hospital called. More precisely, the emergency room phoned to ask if Ray had a bed. Ray pretended to consult his admission log, just as he always did. The nightly hospital call meant one of three things: the chemical dependency floor was full (highly unlikely), the individual in question had fallen under the hospital's "one treatment episode every three months" sanction (also known as the Black List, and only moderately unlikely), or the prospective client had no insurance (in Ray's experience, very likely). The folks at the hospital knew, as did Ray, that federal law prohibited him from turning away individuals requesting detoxification services if he had an open bed. The hospital was generous enough to spring for a cab voucher for the intoxicate. In Ray's experience as well, overnight admissions were less interested in detox than in free food, a free bed and complimentary meds. For his two hour paperwork investment and aggravation, he would receive the benefit of knowing the client slept until noon then slipped out the side door and into another binge. Any bills for service generated for the brief stay would return in a week or so stamped "No Such Address" or simply "Return to Sender". On average, the clients of addictions services managed to muster a raging 25% of them who would ever pay a dime toward their bill. The night shift admission payment percentages were a quarter of that quarter in good years. Thus, the frequent calls from the hospital. They had little better luck in getting good addresses (or even with those, a client who stayed sober long enough to give a shit). No one relished treating the uninsured and uninsurable. It was fiscal suicide. The hospital was perfectly willing to let the local experts in deadbeats handle the workload. Tonight, Ray could tell them no. He liked telling them no, especially when it was the truth. According to the above context, answer the following question. What did Ray tell the hospital?
OPTIONS:
- To send the cab with a patient over
- No
- not enough information
- the federal law allows him to turn patients away

Answer: No

November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." According to the above context, answer the following question. The man smoked a cigarette:
OPTIONS:
- after stepping out of his car
- in his car
- not enough information
- before saying a word

Answer:
in his car