By Julie Zeilinger
Younger women this present day have a nasty acceptance, and for sturdy cause: They’re sexting their classmates, they spend extra time on fb than they do in school, and their urge for food for cloth possessions and fact television is matched in basic terms by means of their overwhelming apathy approximately very important social and political concerns. Right?
FBomb web publication writer Julie Zeilinger debunks those (and different) myths approximately glossy early life in a bit F’d Up, the 1st booklet approximately feminism for younger women of their youth and twenties to truly be written by way of one in all their friends. during this available guide, Zeilinger takes a serious, sincere, and funny examine the place younger feminists are as a iteration, and the place they’re going—and she does so from the point of view of somebody who’s within the trenches correct along her readers.
Fun, humorous, and fascinating, a bit F’d Up is a must-read for the becoming variety of clever, expert younger women available in the market who're able to commence discovering their voice—and altering the area.
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From an acclaimed writer comes a desirable tale of the lifestyles, marriage, and loss of life of an all yet forgotten Roman lady. Born to an illustrious Roman relations in a hundred twenty five CE, Regilla used to be married on the age of fifteen to Herodes, a filthy rich Greek who championed his country's values at a time while Rome governed.
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As I go over to the car, wondering who this could be, she reaches across and swings the passenger door open. " It takes me a second to click: Ann Slater, Susan's mother. "I thought I might find you around here," she says, as I slide into the front seat. The car's sour with the smell of cigarettes and beer. Now why would she, of all people, be looking for me? " "Ah well," she sighs, like an afternoon soap-opera queen, "we've all got our own lives to live, haven't we? " "True enough," I admit. Time has not been especially kind to Ann.
She was moaning horribly. I wiped the fresh blood from her legs with the towel. Her slender thighs smeared with blood. "Hold on, darling," I kept saying. " Then the ambulance attendants were there, guiding me out of the way, lifting Deirdre onto a stretcher and quickly into the ambulance. I clambered in behind and huddled in a corner while they worked on her and the ambulance careened, shrieking through the crowded city streets. It all was a blur after that. The big general hospital. Doctors, nurses, orderlies.
Like hell you don't. "Fine," I tell him and head toward the gym. We're labouring on a play I wrote myself. At first we'd rummaged around the standard school play fare—Pygmalion, Our Town, The Crucible—but couldn't find anything that clicked for the kids involved. That's when Patsy Reynolds—one of those annoyingly bright kids who thinks of clever things before you do—suggested we develop our own production. Maybe I could whip up a rough script and we would workshop the thing from there. Against my better judgment, I allowed myself to be flattered into it.