I’ll go one farther back than that. I almost never had a first date. A young lady I met in the hospital cafeteria where I worked as a pharmacy intern (she was an X-ray tech) I asked out on a date. Would you like to follow me home? she asked. I said SURE! She got in her car, hit the freeway, went over the top of the hill..and was gone. I went 75 mph desperately trying to keep her tail lights in my line of sight while swerving in and out of traffic. I thought if you don’t really want to go out with me, just tell me, don’t try to ditch me! I finally caught up with her but found out she always drives that way. If Janet Guthrie wasn’t the first woman to drive in the Indy 500, she would have been. Over the years as she got older, collecting speeding tickets got old so she became a more responsible driver. I’m glad, because I had to help pay for those tickets over the last 30+ years we’ve been married. Glad I caught up to her that one night on the freeway. EDIT, AND BACKSTORY: She ate lunch with her X-ray tech coworkers. She left the table first and I approached the others and asked what was her name, the girl that just left. They told me, and about a half hour later called the radiology department from the pharmacy phone and asked for her. She said all the girls in the department were huddled around the phone and giggling while we talked. It’s the handsome blonde intern in the pharmacy, they told each other. Oh, you mean THAT one?! Ooooh! Like the final scene from “An Officer And A Gentleman.” Pretty funny. How does Janet probably feel about the author? - He was worth her time after work. - not enough information - He was a great coworker. - He was a slow driver.
He was worth her time after work.

(Question)
My love affair with technology began at an early age. On my seventh birthday, my parents bought me a second-hand ZX Spectrum and, in a foretaste of my life to come, I immediately set about learning how to use it to get attention. It's a sign of how rapidly technology develops that my crappy Spectrum, with its 48k of memory, already had 12k more storage power than the computer that had guided the Apollo 11 moon landing eighteen years earlier* With power like that, there seemed to be no limit to what I could do. While my other computer-owning peers would sit for hours while their tape drives squawked away loading 'Manic Miner' or 'Bubble Buster' I was more fascinated by learning to write my own programs. The first of these consisted of just two lines of code* that made the word 'shit' appear again and again on my screen, to the huge amusement of my friends and the irritation of my parents, who obviously had more educational motives for bringing a computer into the house. From that day on, the possibilities offered by technology to both subvert the norm and get attention had me hooked. Years later, at secondary school, I convinced my English teacher, Mr Coen, to teach me desktop publishing, ostensibly to work on the official school magazine, but in reality to produce an alternative underground version - complete with less than flattering articles about teachers and fellow pupils and distributed via the publicly accessible shared hard drive that was supposed to be used for collaborative coursework. That particular stunt got me banned from the school computer room for half a term. And then, in 1997, I discovered the Internet. Throughout history, every fame-hungry media dickhead has found his preferred medium for pursuing fame and wealth (in that order). For Tony Parsons - and Hitler, for that matter - it was books. William Randolph Hearst chose newspapers. Don Imus and Howard Stern preferred radio. For Nick Griffin it's inflammatory leaflets. For Tracy Emin it's art. Or at least an approximation of it. With the... What does the narrator think about the possibilities of technology? - It's addictive. - not enough information - The possibilities are not endless. - It's a way to subvert norms.
(Answer)
It's a way to subvert norms.

Ques: Manny had Bob Marley cranking on the stereo, his van was full of passengers, and the air conditioning was working after a long week of giving him trouble. The sun beat down on the wet-looking asphalt road that ran along the harbor, next to the concrete waterfront. It curved along in front of the brightly colored Dutch Colonial warehouses of Charlotte Amalie, which were now converted restaurants and jewel shops. Tourists in day-glo shirts and daubs of sunscreen rubbed over peeling skin crowded both sides of the waterfront road. Manny slowed somewhat, keeping an eye on them. On the sidewalk by the shops a tall black man stood by a food cart. The hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the cart's side had faded letters. The man wore a grand suit with tails, like an orchestra conductor, and a top hat perched on his shaved head. A cigar burned in his mouth. For a brief second he held Manny's attention. Then the food cart's owner stepped forward and the strangely dressed man disappeared. Manny looked at the other side of the road. A white girl with oval shaped sunglasses and pink leather pants stepped off the sidewalk into the road in front of his van. He slammed on the brakes, trying to dodge her, but the van couldn't respond that fast. Her ponytail flew up towards the windshield and her head struck the star-shaped hood ornament. She bounced along the asphalt. Manny weaved the van to a stop, with swearing from the passengers in the back. He opened the door and stepped out into the heat. Get up, stand up, the radio cried out, and that was what Manny hoped would happen. He hoped that she would at least just stir and be okay. But she just lay there. What was the weather like? - cloudy - rainy - not enough information - sunny
Ans: sunny

“Please remember me to myself!” When sliding toward mania in 2016, I begged this of my therapist. He cocked his head. “What do you mean?” I had no idea—on a conscious level—what I was asking for, just that I felt in a desperate sense that the self I knew was slipping away. An inability to recognize myself either in my writing or in reflecting upon my own actions was taking over. And then…? I didn't care. I wanted to kiss girls. Which is fine—just not something I ordinarily do. I wanted to drink, smoke. Again, fine—but not something I ordinarily do. “Do I seem…okay?” I asked a colleague at work. A woman I barely knew. Insanely, I thought that since she worked with disabled students, many of whom struggled with mental illness, she would know mania when she saw it. This was a rather foolish assumption—especially since she's an educator, not a psychiatrist, especially with how skilled I am at wearing the mask of calm, the face of sanity. “You seem great, Julie. Cheery. Professional as always.” I let her reassurance placate me. Wanted to be placated. Yet, within months I lost my job. And not only that, but a chance at a scholarship, two really important long term friendships—relationships I'd enjoyed since high school. I was hospitalized three times between September and February. I lost my ability to trust myself, lost my mind. It is now a little over two years since I first felt that sliding. Twenty-six months since I knew that somewhere in the deepest parts of who I am, I was slipping. Nine seasons since I begged Dr. Poe, “Remember me to myself!” I'm still recuperating. Yes. I have felt like I wasn't me. Julie lost her job: - Within months of noticing mental illness. - not enough information - When she told her employer she needed mental help. - After asking her colleague how she was doing.

Within months of noticing mental illness.