conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Man of the Year'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Man of the Year
  I'm having a hard time following. Partly because I still don't know what happened to the wardrobe, partly because I am way too high way too early in the morning, but mostly because this isn't Howie. Since when does he care about how people view him or how they think he should behave?
  I howl and he laughs with me—not just high and merry, but that smile that takes joy in the other. That smile that is love.
  Howie and I smoke mind-bending weed in the Camaro, all the way to Shangri-la, stumble down the treacherous dune of Devil's Slide, and strip. I haven't been naked on a beach since I was four, but it doesn't feel free the way it did back then. I'm beyond high, relatively pubeless, and there's not a Playmate in sight. The only naked women here look like copper raisins carrying prunes.
  I turn onto my stomach and scan the mass of old flesh but it's hard to see past the group of naked Mexican men who form a circle on the beach between us and the water. They drink beer and bray, clearing the area.
  One of the men catches me staring, sees my bloodshot eyes dart away, and calls out to me. I look back and he begins to pour beer, in a slow and frothing yellow stream, all over his dick, shrieking with laughter and calling to me in Spanish. He points to his wet joint, then to me, then squeals and rolls on his back. I don't know what he means but it totally freaks me out.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'My last day comes too quickly'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My last day comes too quickly. I wake up extra early, anticipating the flight. "Premature evacuation," says Howie, shaking his head.
  I open the door of my room to the outside. One more whiff of warm air and lemon. The Chronicle is on the stoop. I sit down, unfold it. They found the Titanic. Carter's new strategy to take down Reagan. A $1.8 million Brinks robbery right here in San Francisco. But none of it matters. Dorothy Stratten's photo is on the front page.
  For a moment this seems like good news. Coming to town? Meeting the ? But, no. The headline says something different:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I received substantial creative support from Sarah Larson, Mary Cronin, Tammy Greenwood, and Jane Cavolina—literary lights, all.
  When we first spoke, I told Alex Jacobs that I had devoted my career to championing the creative work of others and now I was looking for someone to champion mine. He promised that I would get more than someone in this process, I would get the support of the entire team at Elyse Cheney Literary Associates.
  What's more, I have had the good fortune to be adopted by the Flatiron Books family: Colin Dickerman, Bob Miller, Marlena Bittner, and James Melia. From the moment we met, I've asked myself just one thing: Where have you been all my life? It doesn't get better.
  Above all, Dana. I often reference Emerson's claim that "The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression." But you are my true other half, and my expression loses its meaning without you. You made the time and space for this work, but all along I have understood that my time and space is empty without you, Sam, and Sylvie. Thank you.
  Lou Cove lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, and he hasn't seen a new copy of Playgirl since 1980. You can sign up for email updates here.