The first meeting was on the ninety-ninth floor of the Sears Tower.When Robert Kelly was 3 years old, growing up poor with a single mother on Chicago's South Side, construction started on a building a few miles away in the center of town.At a press launch, Facebook reps showed off the new product, explaining that it could be used to search for restaurants, or for job recruiting.At one point, a Facebook employee stood to demonstrate a search for “friends of my friends who are single and living in San Francisco.” And that’s when Facebook entered the online dating game, doing away with what was, until now, a fragile divide between quotidian online activity and the act of browsing for potential mates.Regardless, “Atwood is a buoyant doomsayer.” Here she is writing on what her novel means today and on watching her dystopia come to pass. The new audiobook features contemporary updates from Atwood, including a warning on trading “liberty” for “safety.” Arguably, the most pressing adaptation is not the television show but one “of another text, one that is even closer to my heart: the life that I am living right this second.” Finally, in her discussion of the Hulu series, Riese writes: “I don’t think we’re at risk of becoming Gilead, or that lesbians are at the top of Trump’s chopping block, but sometimes a story feels real not because of its facts but because of its emotional truth. How long did it take before you could finish reading it?And here she is stating what should be obvious: actions have consequences. It was so close, too real, impossible, familiar, not enough, and everything, all at once.” , get up, go and set it gently, carefully, in another room, and take a hot shower, face turned up under the stream, while weeping messily for a future that already seems lost? Do you identify make you want to go have sex or masturbate or otherwise claim agency over your own body and sexuality in a way, as countless high school English departments have feared, or make you want to go do whatever the opposite of sex is?
My mother was working at an insurance company, supporting us on her own, and our nanny would be left to handle the mess. “He’s never gonna come.” Most days I was right, but not this one.
By the time that I was six and my brother was five, we were used to waiting—and waiting—for our father to show up. I’d started sniffing his trademark leather jacket in search of the new scent of cigarettes.
On one particular afternoon, we sat in a pool of sunlight that poured through our living room’s bay windows. I knew that it meant something—maybe that he was different, less safe.
As a young girl, Alana Levinson struggled with the shame of her father's substance abuse.
But when she looked more deeply into the research on children of drug-addicted parents, she realized society's "conspiracy of silence" was keeping her—and possibly millions of others—from adequately dealing with the experience.
Sometimes she wouldn’t let us leave when she saw his condition, once going so far as to physically pull us out of his car. When he arrived, I remember his dark brown pompadour was expertly crafted.