conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Without a Net'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Without a Net
  The class problem, the problem of poverty and the strange way it is regarded in this country, is not going away.
  SAY I TELL YOU A STORY ABOUT A GIRL WHO'S AFRAID OF MONEY. FROM A young age, she learned that there didn't seem to be much of it and that hard work didn't mean one would ever have much of it. She knew this from her dad's dark tan in the summer that came from working twelve-hour days in the sun, laying mulch and planting flowers in the big, bright lawns of those with houses the size of her entire apartment complex. She knew this from her mom waking up early to go to an office job, and then going to work at an Italian restaurant rather than coming home, so that "after work" only meant the time it took her to get from the first job to the second one.
  By the time she's a teenager, she hasn't learned much more than this: Never let the balance go below zero. She spends the money from her baby-sitting jobs on thrift-store clothes, fast food, CDs. Later, she spends it on gas for her dad's truck when she borrows it to get to and from her after-school job. She works at a pizza shop now, with almost all older boys and men twice her age.
  SAY THIS GIRL STARTS OUT MAKING ONLY $5.25 AN HOUR, AND by the time she applies to college, her dad has left. For a few dollars here and there, she burns CDs full of music for these men—metal and old rock, the kind of stuff that bores her—which she steals from the internet.
  One of these men takes an interest in her. He's broad-shouldered with bright red hair and a kind smile. He's the one who will drive her home most often, late at night, when her mom has already gone to bed. Sometimes this girl goes on pizza deliveries with this man in his truck and they talk, joke, laugh. She feels seen by him more than by anyone else, and she thinks he might feel the same way. Sometimes, in the dark, in front of her parents' house, he looks at her for too long, then asks if he can give her a hug before she leaves him. She hesitates, then says yes. When he holds her, she feels comforted but also scared. She can feel he's getting something from this moment that she can't quite understand, and she's never completely sure if she's safe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about hundred.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Without a Net
  The class problem, the problem of poverty and the strange way it is regarded in this country, is not going away. 
  SAY I TELL YOU A STORY ABOUT A GIRL WHO'S AFRAID OF MONEY. FROM A young age, she learned that there didn't seem to be much of it and that hard work didn't mean one would ever have much of it. She knew this from her dad's dark tan in the summer that came from working twelve-hour days in the sun, laying mulch and planting flowers in the big, bright lawns of those with houses the size of her entire apartment complex. She knew this from her mom waking up early to go to an office job, and then going to work at an Italian restaurant rather than coming home, so that "after work" only meant the time it took her to get from the first job to the second one. 
  By the time she's a teenager, she hasn't learned much more than this: Never let the balance go below zero. She spends the money from her baby-sitting jobs on thrift-store clothes, fast food, CDs. Later, she spends it on gas for her dad's truck when she borrows it to get to and from her after-school job. She works at a pizza shop now, with almost all older boys and men twice her age. 
  SAY THIS GIRL STARTS OUT MAKING ONLY $5. 25 AN HOUR, AND by the time she applies to college, her dad has left. She has only a couple hundred dollars to her name and relies on the men at work who like her to give her rides home. For a few dollars here and there, she burns CDs full of music for these men—metal and old rock, the kind of stuff that bores her—which she steals from the internet. 
  One of these men takes an interest in her. He's broad-shouldered with bright red hair and a kind smile. He's the one who will drive her home most often, late at night, when her mom has already gone to bed. Sometimes this girl goes on pizza deliveries with this man in his truck and they talk, joke, laugh. She feels seen by him more than by anyone else, and she thinks he might feel the same way. Sometimes, in the dark, in front of her parents' house, he looks at her for too long, then asks if he can give her a hug before she leaves him. She hesitates, then says yes. When he holds her, she feels comforted but also scared. She can feel he's getting something from this moment that she can't quite understand, and she's never completely sure if she's safe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'd always had a soft spot for the baby's father. He sang that David Bowie song, "Kooks," in the morning in his sweet London accent, but he was a mean drunk at night, and even though I didn't know about alcoholism yet, I could see that the drinking was getting worse. I could see something else, too—something I couldn't quite put my finger on—something about the way the world kept telling him to "be a man" that frustrated him to the point of violence.
  I sat there, not saying anything. I glanced over at Maia asleep in her soft blue onesie in her blue polka-dot stroller. She didn't mind sleeping in that stroller, didn't even mind sleeping cradled next to me on park benches on warm summer nights, but I knew she'd grow and need more.
  The counselor leaned back in her gray chair and adjusted her gray jacket and tilted her gray head to the side like she was maybe trying to pop a vertebra in her neck.
  She said, "Miss Gore, you have a child to take care of now. You really ought to make an attempt to come down to earth and think about that. You need to think about your child and you need to ask yourself how you're going to make a living."
  THE CEMENT PATH LED PAST CEMENT PILLARS, PAST SQUARE GARDENS, toward a green expanse. "Aim high," I whispered under my breath, then tasted the rage. "That fucking bitch." My walk morphed into a run. Tears streamed down my face. I pushed the stroller. Maia slept. She kept on sleeping.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Once I worked out how much money I'd be wasting if I stayed in bed, I dragged myself to class, suddenly seeing my peers with clear eyes—the classmates who didn't want to be there; the ones who skipped class, showed up late, didn't do the homework; who treated college like a four-year party. I knew they weren't paying their own way. If they were, they wouldn't take it for granted.
  Once I realized that, I stopped being so jealous and resentful of how easy they had it. I stopped envying their co-signed leases, their rent checks arriving in the mail as if from a giant tooth fairy. They could have all that; I had something they didn't. Call it perspective, work ethic, appreciation, grit. Call it what you will, but I have it, and I won't hide it.
  In the moment, at that networking event, I didn't say anything. I did what I had learned to do—blend in and let people assume that I'm one of them. On the subway ride home I was kicking myself for not speaking up, but what would I have said? How could I have told them that I'm not like them without coming off as rude, self-pitying, or both?
  Then I remembered that realization I had on that morning when all I wanted to do was skip class: I have something that they don't. I have the perspective that comes with clawing your way into a world that was designed to keep you out.
  I don't need to constantly announce to my peers that I'm different from them; I just need to remember that myself. I need to never forget that I have as much in common with the doorman as I do with the fancy women he holds the door open for. I've made it into this world, and now I owe it to the world I came from to hold onto my perspective, my work ethic, my appreciation, my grit, and use my history to be a better writer. To tell truer stories. To speak for the people who were successfully kept out of this world.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: To speak for the people who were successfully kept out of this world.. To tell truer stories. I've made it into this world, and now I owe it to the world I came from to hold onto my perspective, my work ethic, my appreciation, my grit, and use my history to be a better writer. I need to never forget that I have as much in common with the doorman as I do with the fancy women he holds the door open for.
  I don't need to constantly announce to my peers that I'm different from them; I just need to remember that myself. I have the perspective that comes with clawing your way into a world that was designed to keep you out. On the subway ride home I was kicking myself for not speaking up, but what would I have said? How could I have told them that I'm not like them without coming off as rude, self-pitying, or both?
  Then I remembered that realization I had on that morning when all I wanted to do was skip class: I have something that they don't. I did what I had learned to do—blend in and let people assume that I'm one of them.
  In the moment, at that networking event, I didn't say anything. Call it what you will, but I have it, and I won't hide it. Call it perspective, work ethic, appreciation, grit. They could have all that; I had something they didn't. I stopped envying their co-signed leases, their rent checks arriving in the mail as if from a giant tooth fairy.
  Once I realized that, I stopped being so jealous and resentful of how easy they had it. If they were, they wouldn't take it for granted. I knew they weren't paying their own way.Once I worked out how much money I'd be wasting if I stayed in bed, I dragged myself to class, suddenly seeing my peers with clear eyes—the classmates who didn't want to be there; the ones who skipped class, showed up late, didn't do the homework; who treated college like a four-year party