conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Chloe, Austen's, Upthe with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'Things I Should Have Known'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Things I Should Have Known
  NOTHING MADE ME WANT TO GET hit by a bus more than Tuesday night happy pill (see: Zoloft) runs. After a lengthy car ride with my mother, who spent all ten minutes singing a God-awful Christian melody and praying for the state of my wayward soul, I'd have to physically restrain my hands to keep myself from shoving the door open and rolling out onto the highway. Sometimes I prayed, too. That a piano would fall from the sky and crush my miserable, suburban existence. Or that God would set CVS on fire to spare me from having to choose between Mickey Mouse and Flintstones gummy vitamins. Since I was, quite unfortunately, still alive, I took it that God couldn't hear me over my mother's off-key rendition of "Amazing Grace." Or maybe he just didn't bother noticing the pitiful lives of Flashburn inhabitants at all.
  Once we made it inside CVS, my mother always played this super annoying game of Find the Most Lame Thing and Force It on Reggie. She used to do this to my brother, Frankie, when she took him clothes shopping. Which probably explains why he turned out to be a sweater-vest-wearing, pleated-pants-enthusiast youth pastor five hundred miles away.
  I rolled my eyes. "Great idea, Karen. I'll write about how much I hate baby ducks inside a baby duck. It'll be one giant eff you to ducks everywhere."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Somehow, I was able to break away from Karen with minimal objection. I was halfway through the store before she could call my name from the creams and ointment aisle, but when she did, it was something like, "Reggie, do you still have that pesky rash on your backside?"
  I didn't respond. Needless to say, her fascination regarding the condition of my ass went unsatisfied. Set on autopilot, I ended up at the back of the store where the pharmacist was rearranging cases on a shelf. When she saw me, she smiled politely and moved to the counter.
  I'd started scanning for a place to sit when some guy practically shoved me to the side. "Excuse me, prescription refill for Prozac. Last name Eliot," he said to the pharmacist.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dulcolax (see: terrible first impression) caught my eye the second I dared take a look behind my head. "Your taste in music should be the least of your worries," I said, crossing my arms across my black sweater as if to declare the laxative display my territory. At least it wasn't feminine products. That could have gotten awkward. "Prozac is the worst antidepressant on the market. I couldn't fall asleep for days when I was on it."
  He was staring at me with a weirdly attractive grin on his face, and I felt like telling him to screw off. But there was a slight anger in his snarled mouth, like he disdained convention and flirty conversations and was only still talking to me because I looked ridiculous with MiraLAX poking up from behind my head.
  I yanked my arm out of his grasp. Even though he was determined and forceful and weird, at least he wasn't annoyingly exuberant. I had to give him brownie points for that.
  My mother was waiting for me at the front doors with a bag in her hand. "I bought you anti-itch ointment just in case your fanny chafes again." She smiled, proudly holding up a thin white tube. "And I picked you up a journal just in case you change your mind."
  She proceeded to babble on about birthday cards and half-price two-liters and a bunch of other irrelevant things I didn't care about. We got in the minivan and rode away, listening to some girl group singing a ballad about the joy of the Lord.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dulcolax (see: terrible first impression) caught my eye the second I dared take a look behind my head. "Your taste in music should be the least of your worries," I said, crossing my arms across my black sweater as if to declare the laxative display my territory. At least it wasn't feminine products. That could have gotten awkward. "Prozac is the worst antidepressant on the market. I couldn't fall asleep for days when I was on it."
  He was staring at me with a weirdly attractive grin on his face, and I felt like telling him to screw off. But there was a slight anger in his snarled mouth, like he disdained convention and flirty conversations and was only still talking to me because I looked ridiculous with MiraLAX poking up from behind my head.
  I yanked my arm out of his grasp. Even though he was determined and forceful and weird, at least he wasn't annoyingly exuberant. I had to give him brownie points for that.
  My mother was waiting for me at the front doors with a bag in her hand. "I bought you anti-itch ointment just in case your fanny chafes again." She smiled, proudly holding up a thin white tube. "And I picked you up a journal just in case you change your mind."
  She proceeded to babble on about birthday cards and half-price two-liters and a bunch of other irrelevant things I didn't care about.