input with options: I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do. "Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks." Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion. "Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks. "Yeah," I say, "Terrible." "What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now." "Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion." "Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks. "Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy." Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." Question: The groups biscotti arrives: === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- Before Jason drains his cup
- not enough information
- After Jason pours cream into his cup
- Before the main character sets down his/her cup
output: After Jason pours cream into his cup

Q: I have unfriended someone over his near daily harassment of me to come over to his way of thinking. Way back in 2006, when Facebook was a young whelp and I had a newborn who steadfastly refused to sleep at night, I would sit and connect with old friends from university and high school, many of whom I had not seen or spoken with in more than a decade. One of those people was Scott. Scott was a super nice guy. He was a year ahead of me at university. He was a bit socially awkward but you really couldn't hope to meet a more genuine individual. Like most people, Scott had had some ups and downs in his life. At some point he found religion. Like he really, really found it. Now, I am somewherere between an agnostic and an atheist but my attitude is generally live and let live. But Scott couldn't do that. Almoost every day he would send me some sort of message. "What do you pray about?" I don't. "God loves you, he gave his son for you, why don't you love Him?" Because I don't believe He or his Son exist. "What are you going to say when you die and stand before Satan instead of God?" Missed that by a mile, didn't I? This went on for a few months. His questions became increasing unhinged and the only thing that mattered to him were his beliefs. Mine were of no consequence. I had asked him, politely at first and then more assertively, to stop bombarding me with his attempts to convert me or to witness to me. All to no avail. Finally, I'd had enough and decided I had better things to do. I pulled the plug and unfriended Scott. He's sent me several friend requests over the years, all of which I have summarily ignored. Question: How long did the author's baby continue to stay awake at night? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- several months
- several years
- several days

A: several months

I was one of the best fingerprint examiners in the world. I could do things the FBI thought impossible. I could memorize fingerprints. The nearby agencies, including local offices of federal agencies that had their own labs, came to me for help. One day in a trial a new-hatched defence attorney tried to make me seem neglectful because I hadn't sent the prints from the crime scene to the FBI for verification. The FBI will not look at prints that have already been identified locally. I tried to get that across to him. Finally I said, "Sir, you don't understand. I don't ask the FBI for help. The FBI asks me for help." The courtroom went dead silent. The lawyer choked a bit and looked frantically at the judge, who knew me quite well. The judge slowly nodded. The lawyer choked a few more times, said, "No further questions," and returned to his seat. I was the only person in the five-state area in which the silver burglar was hitting who got him on fingerprint evidence. He never left fingerprint evidence . . . except when he did. Every other police agency quit looking, because his MO was unmistakable. We didn't. A detective got prints from a bamboo tree he had used to climb in a window, and I got several prints from items he had handled inside the house. After the trial he was being led back to the jail and I was walking down the hall. He stopped and said, "I want to talk to that lady." The bailiff told him he couldn't talk to the witness, but I said I wanted to hear what he had to say. He said, "Lady, you're the smartest cop I ever saw, and I hope to God I never see you again." I think that was the best compliment I ever got. I have other accomplishments. But I consider my police work the most important. Question: What did the author do for a living? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- something extremely difficult
- something slightly challenging
- not enough information
- something extremely easy

Answer:
something extremely difficult