conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about J.A, Konrath, Jack with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Horror Stories'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first three paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Horror Stories
  When I read this particular section of the article, my emotional needle swings hard into the red. Telling her to keep their interchanges a secret, making her responsible for his criminality when he doesn't seem concerned about her welfare, reminds me of the numerous times I have been cowed into silence, forced to ignore or shrug off inappropriate and offensive behavior from men.
  Being female in the entertainment industry can sometimes feel like running a never-ending gauntlet of horny dudes. But it was happening to me long before I had a music career. If you think I invited that kind of interest after I published sexually frank lyrics, you'd have gotten the cause and effect flipped. When I recorded the provocative song "Flower" on my first album, a deliberately bluer-than-blue love song, I was letting everybody know that I wasn't going to be a victim anymore.
  On a trip to visit Skidmore College as prospective freshmen, my friend Meghan and I got drunk with our student tour guides. I must have passed out at some point, because when I came to, I was in a strange boy's dorm room, lying on his bed while he went down on me and his semihard erection was dangling in my face. I gathered my clothes as he cowered guiltily in the corner, and I ran out of the building. But I had no idea where I was. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn't find my friend. It was springtime, but still very cold. I crouched down on the stoop of a dorm for six hours, shivering, until it got light enough for me to find my way to an administration building.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Losing love can turn you into a ghost in your own life. You go to all the same places, do the same things, but you're not really there. You're surrounded by friends and family, people with whom you intimately belong, but because your heart is broken, you listen to their laughter and conversation as if from a great distance. You're physically present, but emotionally, you're in some parallel dimension from which you cannot escape, no matter how hard you try. Time will refasten what's come unmoored inside you. In the meantime, you exist in the netherworld, with your face pressed up to the glass—wishing you could be like those happy people again, so oblivious, seemingly secure, and self-satisfied.
  It could be worse, I tell myself as I drive to the store, feeling foolish. I could be home drinking. This is better than that. I park the car and feel like the poster child for low self-esteem as I walk toward the entrance. I know I look good, in that way that turns heads and has no business pushing a grocery cart around. Being in the entertainment business has taught me how to shine when I want to, and I do it so well that I almost consider it an unfair advantage. It is too effective. I can feel it working already as I wipe the cart handle down with the disinfecting wipes. I look lovely; I smell like somewhere you would want to vacation. My perfume floats on the breeze. It's all superficial. It signifies nothing. It's just a way to present myself that garners a reaction.
  I push the heavy cart up the brief incline and through the doors, annoyed that I got one with a bum wheel that perpetually sticks. I can't go back and exchange it for another, because that wouldn't fit with the effortless, happy-go-lucky image I'm working so hard to project, so I smile and force the damn thing forward. I feel my long skirt flutter around my bare legs. I scrutinize the produce, my face carefully composed in a mask of equanimity and sweetness, with just a little bit of vulnerability thrown in to make me approachable. I frown in the cutest way as I gently squeeze a mango, taking a quick sniff to assess its ripeness. A man tips his hat at me, and I light up—as if this is the most relaxing and enjoyable experience. But I am stealing surreptitious glances around the store the whole time, scanning the checkout lines to see if Mr. T.J. is working as a cashier. He isn't.
  I float down the aisle, checking my shopping list. I stop in front of the refrigerated section where the milk and butter are displayed. I stay there for an extra minute, knowing that the staff in the back can see through the slats. Sometimes when you open the door to reach for cream or yogurt, you see disembodied hands reaching out, restocking the shelves. I'm trawling myself through the store like angler bait, a shiny and tasty-looking morsel that's hoping to get a bite.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'm trawling myself through the store like angler bait, a shiny and tasty-looking morsel that's hoping to get a bite.. Sometimes when you open the door to reach for cream or yogurt, you see disembodied hands reaching out, restocking the shelves. I stay there for an extra minute, knowing that the staff in the back can see through the slats. I stop in front of the refrigerated section where the milk and butter are displayed.
  I float down the aisle, checking my shopping list. He isn't. is working as a cashier.J. T. But I am stealing surreptitious glances around the store the whole time, scanning the checkout lines to see if Mr. A man tips his hat at me, and I light up—as if this is the most relaxing and enjoyable experience. I frown in the cutest way as I gently squeeze a mango, taking a quick sniff to assess its ripeness. I scrutinize the produce, my face carefully composed in a mask of equanimity and sweetness, with just a little bit of vulnerability thrown in to make me approachable. I feel my long skirt flutter around my bare legs. I can't go back and exchange it for another, because that wouldn't fit with the effortless, happy-go-lucky image I'm working so hard to project, so I smile and force the damn thing forward.
  I push the heavy cart up the brief incline and through the doors, annoyed that I got one with a bum wheel that perpetually sticks. It's just a way to present myself that garners a reaction. It signifies nothing. It's all superficial. My perfume floats on the breeze. I look lovely; I smell like somewhere you would want to vacation. I can feel it working already as I wipe the cart handle down with the disinfecting wipes. It is too effective. Being in the entertainment business has taught me how to shine when I want to, and I do it so well that I almost consider it an unfair advantage. I know I look good, in that way that turns heads and has no business pushing a grocery cart around. I park the car and feel like the poster child for low self-esteem as I walk toward the entrance. This is better than that. I could be home drinking.
  It could be worse, I tell myself as I drive to the store, feeling foolish. In the meantime, you exist in the netherworld, with your face pressed up to the glass—wishing you could be like those happy people again, so oblivious, seemingly secure, and self-satisfied. Time will refasten what's come unmoored inside you. You're physically present, but emotionally, you're in some parallel dimension from which you cannot escape, no matter how hard you try. You're surrounded by friends and family, people with whom you intimately belong, but because your heart is broken, you listen to their laughter and conversation as if from a great distance. You go to all the same places, do the same things, but you're not really there.Losing love can turn you into a ghost in your own life
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last two paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I smile, glad to see our relationship is still intact. I stretch a piece of hot-pink KT Tape along the inside of my left knee where an old injury is acting up. I crack my knuckles while we talk, bending my fingers back to keep them nimble. I think I can feel rain coming, because my joints are a little achy.
  To my wider circle of family and friends, I am healthy and whole because of your love. Thank you for nurturing me.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I smile, glad to see our relationship is still intact. I stretch a piece of hot-pink KT Tape along the inside of my left knee where an old injury is acting up. I crack my knuckles while we talk, bending my fingers back to keep them nimble. I think I can feel rain coming, because my joints are a little achy.
  To my wider circle of family and friends, I am healthy and whole because of your love.