Question: (Q).
Macy peeked in, expecting to see Mallie Mae in her favorite chair. Instead, she was standing at a front window, staring at the sky. The matriarch spent most of her time in her bedroom these days. She had everything she needed right there. The room was spacious and beautifully furnished. And Macy was ready to jump at her command. "Did you finish your lunch, Mallie Mae?" The 75-year-old Mallie Mae Mobley loved Macy like the daughter she never had. "Yes, I'm finished. But tell Hadley the ham was dry." "You know that will hurt his feelings." "I don't care. I won't eat dry ham. I've told him over and over, but he keeps sending me dry ham." "Yes, Ma'am. I'll tell him. Macy walked over to pick up the tray. "What do you think about Lilman's fiancé? "She a nice young lady, I suppose." "Macy--tell me what you really think." Macy studied Mallie Mae's face to make sure she really wanted to hear her opinion. "I'm not crazy about her." "I think she's awful--a crude money-hungry tramp." Macy tried not to smile. Mallie Mae went on. "If there was any way I could stop this wedding without alienated my son, I would do it in a heartbeat." "Just tell him how you feel." "No, no, no. Then he'll be determined to marry her--and he'll be mad at me. I wanted him to be a surgeon, you know. I had planned it since he was a little boy. He could have been a world-class surgeon." Macy had heard this story nearly every day since she took the job as a personal aide fifteen years earlier, after Mallie Mae had taken a fall and broken her leg. Question: How long it probably took Hadley to make the ham? Options: - not enough information   - 2 days   - 2 minutes   - 2 hours === The correct answer is
(A).
2 hours


(Q).
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: After the end of this narration, the woman probably: Options: - not enough information   - Still has the same cordial relationship with her boyfriend   - has not forgiven her boyfriend for spanking her   - has forgotten about her childhood abuse === The correct answer is
(A).
Still has the same cordial relationship with her boyfriend


(Q).
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 band's t-shirt is the narrator wearing? Options: - not enough information   - The Beatles   - TV on the Radio   - Pretty Girls Make Graves === The correct answer is
(A).

Answer: TV on the Radio