conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Iris, Shepard, Lucas entitled Would You Rather.. Start with the sentence 'Would You Rather (film): Iris, a young woman caring for her sick brother Raleigh, is unable to afford his treatment costs'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Would You Rather (film): Iris, a young woman caring for her sick brother Raleigh, is unable to afford his treatment costs.\nHer brother\'s oncologist, dr Barden, introduces Iris to Shepard Lambrick, a philanthropist, who offers her a deal: if she wins a parlor game at a dinner party, his charitable foundation will pay for Raleigh\'s leukemia treatment and locate a bone marrow donor for him immediately.\ndr Barden was a former winner of the game.\nIris reluctantly accepts.\nThe next day at Lambrick\'s manor, Iris is introduced to his son Julian and the other contestants: Lucas; Travis, a war veteran; Linda, an elderly, paralyzed woman; Peter, a gambling addict; Cal; Amy; and Conway, an alcoholic debtor.\nA steak and fois gras dinner is served but, Iris, a vegetarian, initially declines to eat it.\nShepherd then offers her $10,000 to compromise her principles, and so she eats the steak.\nWhen Shepard realizes Conway is a recovering alcoholic, he offers Conway $10,000 to drink a glass of wine.\nWhen Conway declines he then offers him $50,000 to drink an entire decanter of Scotch.\nConway accepts the $50,000 and reluctantly drinks the Scotch.\nAfter dinner ends, the game begins.\nShepard reveals it to be a version of the party game "Would you rather.\n", in which players must choose between two options.\nShepard gives his guests the opportunity to leave without playing, but everyone stays.\nAfter Shepard\'s butler, a former MI5 agent named Bevans, wheels in an electric shock machine, the drunken Conway attempts to leave but is shot dead.\nEach contestant is then forced to choose between shocking themselves or another person.\nIn the second round, each contestant must choose between stabbing someone in the thigh with an ice pick or whipping Travis three times with a sjambok.\nTravis submits to being whipped by Iris and Lucas to save anyone from being stabbed.\nKnowing Travis will not survive another whipping, Peter stabs and accidentally kills Linda when he hits her femoral artery.\nCal agrees with Amy and chooses to whip Travis, who is eliminated when he becomes unresponsive.\nLucas causes a distraction, and everyone but Amy attempts to escape the room.\nCal advances on Shepard with the sjambok as Lucas attacks the guards and Iris escapes.\nAfter Shepard shoots and kills Cal, the others surrender.\nShepard sends Bevans and Julian after Iris.\nJulian finds Iris first and attempts to rape her, but she stabs him with the ice pick.\ndr Barden, who has had second thoughts about sending Iris to Shepard, breaks into the mansion to save her.\nDrawn by her cries, Barden and Bevans converge on her.\nBevans kills Barden, escorts Iris back to the game, and sends Julian upstairs.\nAfter Shepard apologizes to Iris for Julian\'s behavior, the third round begins: a choice between getting dunked in a barrel for two minutes or an unknown task written on a card sealed until after the player chooses.\nPeter chooses his card, which requires lighting a firecracker in Peter\'s hand.\nShepard has Bevans secure the stick in place with duct tape, and the shock causes a heart attack, and he dies.\nLucas\' card forces him to slit open his own eye.\nIris chooses the barrel and survives; her card is revealed to have been extraction of all of her teeth.\nAmy, whose child died of drowning, chooses her card, finding she must be dunked for 4 minutes, and Amy drowns.\nOnly Iris and Lucas remain for the fourth round.\nIris wins a coin toss to go first.\nShe is given the choice to either shoot Lucas to win the game, or spare him which would result in both walking away empty-handed.\nAs Lucas attempts to talk her into sparing him and explains the struggles of his family, she abruptly shoots and kills him.\nShepard crowns her the champion, gives her a bag full of money, and explains that a donor has already been located for her brother and he will have surgery later that week.\nAt home, Iris finds Raleigh asleep on his bed so she heads to shower the blood off her.\nThe next morning she goes to her brother\'s room only to find Raleigh was not sleeping, but had committed suicide by overdosing on his medication, and Iris cries out in anguish.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Would You Rather
  Rylee soon got a job that let her work from home, too, and together we expressed a lot of good intentions about how we would structure our days: We would be at our desks from 8–4 or 9–5, breaking for a lunch we'd prepare together, to save money on groceries. When we were done we'd work out, and then we would hang out with other friends at their apartment or a bar. I'd spent most of my young life hoping I'd end up in a situation like this one, living with my best friend, both of us single, starting our actual adult lives together. I'd always thought I wanted my world to be smaller: my friends close, my job close, my social life at home. Any and all boyfriends existed somewhere nebulous outside this perfect little universe, if at all. It occurs to me now that what I wanted was a partner.
  And for a while, living with Rylee was almost like having one. We did grocery shop together, and eat lunch together, and often work together across the dining-room table. Working at home turned out to be a challenge, however, since we suffered from similarly powerful mixtures of Catholic and Midwestern and strict-parent guilt and both felt ashamed and unproductive if we weren't constantly working. So we tried to help each other feel okay about working until 2:00 or 3:00 instead of 5:00 or 6:00. On weekends we took day trips around the state and occasionally hung out at parties at our friend Colleen's dental school fraternity for as long as we could stay awake. We settled into the kind of rituals other domestic partners share: a pizza night (Thursdays, frozen Jack's), a distribution of chores, a shared TV show to watch two episodes of together before bed. For a little while I really, truly loved it. This is the kind of environment I'm built to thrive in: a rut. Or so I thought.
  I didn't allow myself to recognize that I was unhappy, at first. It didn't make sense. I had wanted to live in Minnesota after college, and that's exactly what I was doing. I had wanted to live with Rylee, and here we were. I wasn't seeing much of anybody else, but I couldn't think of many other people I cared to see. Even after I bought my own car, I couldn't really think of anywhere to go. The person I liked hanging out with most was right here; why go anywhere else?
  Mixed in among those indistinguishable days there were still some of the most comforting and most challenging evenings of my life, just talking to Rylee. I am sure other friends have influenced my character and my decision-making, but none so profoundly as her. We have been friends since we were eighteen; I haven't been an adult without her. Neither of us is particularly religious, but we are spiritual insofar as it serves the story of us: we are soul mates, deliberately placed by some mysterious force on opposite sides of the same dormitory floor. And now, here we were, in the living room in our perfect apartment, each of us curled up on the couches we'd wordlessly claimed as our own. It never mattered how much we'd talked about something before; there was always a few hours' worth more to be said. When we agreed about something, which was usually the case, I felt stronger, less alone. When we disagreed, which happened often earlier in our friendship and less as time went on, I felt angry, as determined I was right as she was. Then whatever it was would come up again, and I'd still disagree, but a little less stringently than before. Before I knew it, I had grown.
  Eventually, after what felt like at least an hour, the "turbulence" stopped. I have no idea how much time actually passed. I only know it was enough to traumatize me. The rest of the flight was perfectly, eerily smooth. I overheard a woman sitting in the row behind mine tell her neighbor that she'd been praying with a beaded bracelet a monk gave her during her visit to the Shaolin Monastery. The implication, I think, was that we owed her our lives.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Recently I told Lydia that I was kind of over my boy-clothes phase, and she smiled knowingly, which of course annoyed me. I knew what she'd say—that I'd gone through the same thing so many queer women go through when they first come out. I'd done the stereotypical Baby Dyke thing of buying a bunch of men's shirts and snapback hats and whatever else I saw all the Instagram lesbians wearing, and had tried in earnest to make them fit me. And then, slowly but surely, I turned back into myself: a not-all-that-stylish copycat who vacillates between tomboy and femme, depending on the day. I dyed my hair back to something like my natural medium brown from its former bleached blond. I bought some silk shirts and a chicly shapeless dress. I got this unexpected urge to wear heels—just once, and I was all set again for the next year.
  I would have loved to come out and feel at once fully formed, somehow done as a person. For a while I felt a real comfort in knowing that my clothing said something about the person I'd so recently become. But after a while being capital-g Gay lost some of its novelty, and became instead just one of the many things that make me who I am. The clothing I'd acquired in an attempt to fit a self-imposed mold—clothing I really did want, the kind of clothing I still admire on other people—started feeling as weird on my body as the green dress before it.
  If there is a line between curious fan behavior and creepy fan behavior, it is hazy, and suited to my own needs. I would never email a stranger to ask her about her divorce, but I will try to put together a timeline of her relationship's demise using her social media platforms. I arrive at the end of these information-gathering sessions bewildered and embarrassed. I do not know why I care. I only know that my desire to pry is bottomless. I want to collect every sordid detail of every life that I possibly can. It is as if I think knowing more about other people's lives will preserve my own.
  Still, I have never wanted answers about a stranger's life so badly that I have asked the source herself. I'm too self-conscious, and too proud; I couldn't bear to have anyone famous or even sort of famous think I care that much about them. Obviously, though, I do.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Lydia.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Recently I told Lydia that I was kind of over my boy-clothes phase, and she smiled knowingly, which of course annoyed me. I knew what she'd say—that I'd gone through the same thing so many queer women go through when they first come out. I'd done the stereotypical Baby Dyke thing of buying a bunch of men's shirts and snapback hats and whatever else I saw all the Instagram lesbians wearing, and had tried in earnest to make them fit me. And then, slowly but surely, I turned back into myself: a not-all-that-stylish copycat who vacillates between tomboy and femme, depending on the day. I dyed my hair back to something like my natural medium brown from its former bleached blond. I bought some silk shirts and a chicly shapeless dress. I got this unexpected urge to wear heels—just once, and I was all set again for the next year. 
  I would have loved to come out and feel at once fully formed, somehow done as a person. For a while I felt a real comfort in knowing that my clothing said something about the person I'd so recently become. But after a while being capital-g Gay lost some of its novelty, and became instead just one of the many things that make me who I am. The clothing I'd acquired in an attempt to fit a self-imposed mold—clothing I really did want, the kind of clothing I still admire on other people—started feeling as weird on my body as the green dress before it. I have given most of my wannabe tomboy costumes to Lydia, who conveniently wears the same size shirts that I do. 
  If there is a line between curious fan behavior and creepy fan behavior, it is hazy, and suited to my own needs. I would never email a stranger to ask her about her divorce, but I will try to put together a timeline of her relationship's demise using her social media platforms. I arrive at the end of these information-gathering sessions bewildered and embarrassed. I do not know why I care. I only know that my desire to pry is bottomless. I want to collect every sordid detail of every life that I possibly can. It is as if I think knowing more about other people's lives will preserve my own. 
  Still, I have never wanted answers about a stranger's life so badly that I have asked the source herself. I'm too self-conscious, and too proud; I couldn't bear to have anyone famous or even sort of famous think I care that much about them. Obviously, though, I do.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Age itself, I'm sure, is no small part of it—there is only so much time in the day, and I do not want to waste any of it alongside someone or several someones I don't much care for. I can't blame anyone for prioritizing similarly. Five or so years ago I had more friends than I do today, and I think that is probably true for most people over the age of thirty.
  The sad part is that I am positive I am a better person today than I was five years ago, and much better still than five years before that. Surely most people improve as they get older. And yet, it is never again as easy to surround ourselves with friends as when we are at our youngest and our stupidest. In theory, I should be easier to like than ever before. But my world seems so much smaller than it used to be. I worry I was born with only a finite amount of likability in me, and I wasted too much of it on prior selves.
  When I was a teenager I'd lie awake in bed for hours, legs in the air, feet pointed and then flexed, trying to stretch through the dull aching in my calves that came as a consequence of a rather sudden growth spurt. My whole life I'd thought of myself as short, until, seemingly out of nowhere, I was tall. Coming out has been a bit like this. More than two years later I am still stretching, reaching for something solid enough to stand on.
  I cannot change anything about the trajectory of my past, and if I were given the opportunity, I am not sure that I would. But I suspect that some of the things I have only recently learned, at twenty-eight and twenty-nine and thirty, are things most people figure out much earlier. All that time I spent feeling righteous about my so-called conviction-based singleness, I had no idea how much work I had left to do. Being alone throughout my adolescence and young adulthood made me strong in some ways, but left me unchallenged in others, too. Some of the friends I judged for their back-to-back boyfriends have more than a decade's worth of the kind of interpersonal experience I am only now starting to accumulate. To make myself feel better when I was single I told myself that I would come out ahead in the end, wiser and happier for having spent so much time by myself.
  But true and lasting love is not a reward you get for good behavior, and definitely not one you get for self-righteousness. There are a million ways to arrive there, and most of them look an awful lot like luck. There is no universal secret to getting it, and though I am sure I will keep looking, just in case, I'm pretty sure there isn't one to keeping it, either. The only way I know how to find love is the one that worked for me, and that one took twenty-eight-and-a-half years. The amount of time I spent waiting may not be so long in the grand scheme of things, but it wasn't that long ago that I felt I'd been waiting forever. I waited until I couldn't stand to wait anymore, and then, finally, I tried something different.