Question: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: In this confessional age, TV, radio and print rely for much of their content on the sad stories of those 'victims' of life. The story goes something like this: There is the future 'victim' getting on with their quotidian activities and whoosh, they are whisked into a life of gambling, drugs, sex or junk food addiction. After years of struggle, they finally find redemption and become good people again. As in any good tale of redemption, there has to be a 'reason' for why our 'victim' fell off the rails. Take your pick: they were molested, their parents ran away from home, they were denied desserts except on Sundays. Just thinking about it brings a tear to my stony face. How can you not be moved by tales such as these. What is the precipitating cause of the misery in my life? Well, my mother was French and my father was English. And to make things worse, I was brought up Catholic! Yes folks, in today's shorthand of grievance, I'm a half-breed straddling Canada's great language divide and a religious bigot. My hometown was a mixture of French and English-speaking people and the results of their miscenagation. You could never tell by someone's last name who spoke your language (For instance, my good friend P. Arsenault spoke the Queen's English and my cousin Sean Doyle wouldn't have recognized an Oxford Dictionary if you shoved up his nose). As children, we were segregated by language; all the French-speaking kids went to one side of the school where they spoke French all the time. I was fortunate enough to be sent to the English side of the school and got to speak my native tongue. My parents decided my brother and sister wouldn't be quite so lucky. In an effort to bridge the great language divide, they both spent six years learning everything in French and mingling with the French people (My parents did this because it was the firm belief of all forward-thinking families that whatever road you took would be much smoother if you could speak both of Canada's official languages. As it turns out for my siblings and... Question: who is telling the story? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- the author's child
- the author's wife
- the author
Answer: the author

input with options: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. Question: How long would the speaker most likely stay in the hospital? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- 72 hours
- less than 72 hours
- more than 72 hours
output: more than 72 hours

Q: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: I started reading beauty blogs rather than magazines because I loved their honesty. With magazines, I was always a little suspicious that the review wasn't true, that it was more an advertorial than an honest article. Blogs seemed more honest - I never distrusted the review. Plus they went into so much more depth than magazines ever did. I think that the day I discovered beauty blogs was probably also the day my magazine addiction came to an end. BUT, there is one issue that I do have with blogs and that is editing, or grammar to be more precise. Now, don't get me wrong, it is not all blogs that I have this issue with. In fact, the majority of blogs I do read are very well written. But, I still come across a few that don't know the difference between your & you're; where, we're & were; and their, there & they're and this is a massive pet hate of mine. The odd typo doesn't bother me. We all make them. I know I do as I usually only proof read once but repeatedly writing there instead of their or where instead of were drives me mental. I just want to bust out a red pen and edit the post. The carton below, which is floating around Facebook at the moment, was my inspiration for writing this post as it really highlights how, by making the slightest grammatical error, the entire meaning of the sentence changes. I suspect that, if you are a similar grammar fanatic, you are sitting here, nodding your head, thinking 'man, that drives me crazy, too!'. If you are not a grammar fanatic then you might be thinking 'hey, what are you whinging about - it is only a couple of letters out of order'. This is why it annoys me so much - I read a sentence but it doesn't quite make sense, so I have to go back and read it again to get an understanding. As soon as I start doing that, I am no longer reading the content of the post but am instead trying to decipher what is being written. As soon as I have stumbled over a few sentences I give up and stop reading. Question: After finding errors in blogs, how does she probably feel about the author of the blog? Answer:

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- They are annoying
- They are untrustworthy
- They are mental

A:
They are untrustworthy