Seed text provided by 41 of my own words, reshuffled using n-grams sized to 5.
Time to Dial 911
by run_2 - a gpt-2-simple model retrained from unstructured text harvested from emails and blog posts written by Ben Willenbring.
He leaned in a bit, and the moonlight took the rough edge off him. He closed the door behind him, then walked over to the table. I was sure to space out my questions so as not to trigger him unpredictably. A year earlier, I was his teaching assistant in a survey class with the department of classics. The store was eponymously named, and located close by Thalimer’s at the Walnut Mall Theater. As the saleswoman for the counter, I was close at hand to assist the student in getting his name printed on the bill. The registerist came by in time to fill out the form, and when the teacher was done, the student entered the service door.
“Adjunct Professor Schlesinger, how are you?” I asked.
My dad was playing a more direct role in my narrative development. I don’t remember the exact way the interview was going, but he wrote me a quick email on a regular days go, just telling me that he and I should get on well. When I asked him what a good teacher he was, he wrote me a quick email with the subject line:”Your Excellency”.
This was the beginning of the end for me. I worked out an arrangement with the CQ desk that allowed me to work out the salaries of my executive staff members on a case-by-case basis, then send that information to the CQ for approval. This arrangement allowed me to make calculations with my executive staff on a case-by-case basis, then grade and commit myself highly to the work, assuming full effectiveness. When my family lived in on the arrangement, it was in the neighborhood of the $88,000 my dad made working as an executive assistant manager. That is around the same as the cost of a high-end apartment in New York City. From my couch, I could sleep on it, and at night, I could run a few errands - like swiping the phone from the bottom of my hand, or lugging a pair of sunglasses on a tight snare - or playing backgammon.
In my early forties, when I could afford the space, and wanted a family room, I divided it among two rooms, one for myself and one for my wife, who was away on business. I had the second one for emergencies, and the third for social occasions with my family.
In the second room, I had the baby. By the third month, my family consisted of three people: my wife, me and Richard. We had dinner, had a game of catch, and huddled around the fire escape. My youngest daughter was allowed to walk in - probably with Richard in tow. My wife and I had no idea each other, and was not aware that our house was the size of Delaware. Richard and I were not in the same boat. He’d call me by the last name of the family, and if I was mistaken, I’d think of you as morons.
“IUCKO’s’ never even touched a hamburger, let alone a hamburger parlor!” I asked.
“You’re a fucking savant.” He went on.
“You think you’re smarter than them.” I asked.
“I think you’re more educated than them.” He smiled. He looked at me like I was a retard. I didn’t appreciate stupid behavior from strangers, so I went home and composed myself. On the same day I composed myself, my husband and I went to the bathroom. On the way, I didn’t even bother to find my cell phone. Instead, I just called my wife and said…
"Hey, you wanna stay on for a minute and call me Richard?" I replied, thinking it was time to dial 911.
"Yes, ma'am." she said. "I'm in the bathroom. Want to help?"