asd

app.py

@@ -3,8 +3,7 @@ import openai
 import numpy as np
 # from scipy.stats import norm
 
-# Make sure to replace 'your_api_key' with your actual OpenAI API key
-# openai.api_key = "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"
+openai.api_key = api_key
 
 harry = "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone\n\nas though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl. Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten. At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying. \" -- packed with Muggles, of course -- \" Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him -- and they had an owl. Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying. \"Now, what's the platform number?\" said the boys' mother. \"Nine and three-quarters!\" piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand, \"Mom, can't I go...\" \"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.\" What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it -- but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished. \"Fred, you next,\" the plump woman said. \"I'm not Fred, I'm George,\" said the boy. \"Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?\" \"Sorry, George, dear.\" \"Only joking, I am Fred,\" said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone -- but how had he done it? Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier -- he was almost there -- and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere. There was nothing else for it. \"Excuse me,\" Harry said to the plump woman. \"Hello, dear,\" she said. \"First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too.\" She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose. \"Yes,\" said Harry. \"The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know how to -- \" \"How to get onto the platform?\" she"
 pineapple = "Pineapple Street\n\nat buildings that hadn\u2019t changed, at the thin ridge of White Mountain crest rising above the eastern tree line, it was easy to imagine the place had been cryogenically preserved. Fran had offered me her couch, but the way she said it\u2014\u201cI mean, there\u2019s the dog, and Jacob\u2019s always at volume eleven, and Max still doesn\u2019t sleep through the night\u201d\u2014made it seem more gesture than invitation. So I\u2019d opted to stay in one of the two guest apartments, located right above the ravine in a small house that used to be the business office. There were a bedroom and bathroom on each floor, plus a downstairs kitchen to share. The whole place, I found, smelled like bleach. I unpacked, worrying I hadn\u2019t brought enough sweaters, and thinking, of all things, about Granby pay phones. Imagine me (remember me), fifteen, sixteen, dressed in black even when I wasn\u2019t backstage, my taped-up Doc Martens, the dark, wispy hair fringing my Cabbage Patch face; imagine me, armored in flannel, eyes ringed thick with liner, passing the pay phone and\u2014without looking\u2014picking it up, twirling it upside down, hanging it back the wrong way. That was only at first, though; by junior year, I couldn\u2019t pass one without picking up the receiver, pressing a single number, and listening\u2014because there was at least one phone on which, if you did this, you could hear another conversation through the static. I discovered the trick when I started to call my dorm from the gym lobby phone to ask if I could be late for 10:00 check-in, but after I pressed the first button I heard a boy\u2019s voice, muffled, half volume, complaining to his mother about midterms. She asked if he\u2019d been getting his allergy shots. He sounded whiny and homesick and about twelve years old, and it took me a while to recognize his voice: Tim Busse, a hockey player with bad skin but a beautiful girlfriend. He must have been on a pay phone in his own dorm common, across the ravine. I didn\u2019t understand what rules of telecommunications allowed this to occur, and when I told my husband this story once, he shook his head, said, \u201cThat couldn\u2019t happen.\u201d I asked if he was accusing me of lying, or if he thought I\u2019d been hearing voices. \u201cI just mean,\u201d Jerome replied evenly, \u201cthat it couldn\u2019t happen.\u201d I stood in the gym lobby mesmerized, not wanting to miss a word. But eventually I had to; I called my own dorm, asked the on-duty teacher for ten extra minutes to run across campus and get the history book I\u2019d left in Commons. No, she said, I could not. I had three minutes till check-in. I hung up, lifted the receiver again, pressed one number. There was Tim Busse\u2019s voice still. Magic. He told his mother he was failing physics. I was surprised. And now I had a secret about him. A secret secret, one he hadn\u2019t meant to share. I had a sidelong crush after that on Tim Busse, to whom I\u2019d never previously paid an ounce o"