Apparently Aaron Burr was friends with William Godwin (the father of Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein) and when Burr visited Godwin in England, Burr sat with Godwin’s daughters to play Tea Party with them. They sang to him and Mary Shelley presented an essay called “The Influence of Government on the Character of the People” (what kind of essay is that for a 13 year old, oh my god). Burr told Mary that her writing was very good and that’s the end of that crazy story. Why is history so weird. I never thought these two figures would meet, let alone at a play-pretend tea party.
What exactly is God n' Gabe? I keep seeing it around. What's it about?
well, in my FAQ you’ll find:
What is this God’n’Gabe book I keep seeing?
God'n'Gabe now has three issues!
God’n’Gabe (I-III) is a 5.25” x 8.125” fanbook by your’s truly! It started out as a pretty quaint personal project, and took on a life of it’s own. Every page is about God (Chuck Shurley) and Gabriel (The Trickster) and my personal belief of their whereabouts in the SPN universe for the past few years! All comics have been redrawn in high resolution specifically for the book and was an absolute labor of love. It is sold in my Etsy on occasion!
G'n'G III has all completely unseen comics and storyline that I’ve never posted before!
Can I get God’n’Gabe signed by Rich and Rob?
Totally! Please tell me about it, I’d love to see and hear about how it goes.
basically, it was like Kings of Con before it existed! but instead of rich and rob it’s gabe and chuck
what shocks people when they read it is how good it works. this isn't’ speaking to the quality of my writing either, it’s just incredible how their characters developed in the show to be so similar that honestly, they’d be great roommates
Who PLANS out in-class essays? What kind of person actually does an “outline” with “cohesive thoughts”. I don’t roll that way. We got forty five minutes and I’m not lagging. It’s ride or die bitch. Or should I say,,, WRITE and die. Haha fuck English essay tests.
I’ve been thinking
about this line a lot because I feel like it made a big statement in terms of
Shelagh and Patrick’s relationship and how Shelagh views it. How many times has
Shelagh just wished they could be “any other couple?” When she was Sister
Bernadette and finally realised her feelings for Patrick, she wished they could
be any other couple then and not the Nun and the Doctor. She probably longed
for it when her and Patrick first announced their engagement, because if they
were any other couple she wouldn’t have had the fear of what other people would
think of their relationship. She probably wished for it when she first
discovered her infertility because in her eyes “any other couple” would have
been able to have a child. There were probably endless nights when Patrick got
called out for work when she wished they were like any other couple because she
wouldn’t have had nights alone. She wouldn’t have lost her husband to work. And
even during her pregnancy she longed for it because if they were any other
couple Patrick would have been able to solely play the role of Father and not
But when she’s in
labour, without him, because she wants to be like any other couple, she
realises she needs him. They will never be like any other couple because if
they were they wouldn’t have the bond and strong relationship that they do. It is
this moment I feel like Shelagh truly accepts that their relationship will
never be like any other couple but that’s okay, because if they were they
wouldn’t be where they are now. To echo Sister Julienne, their relationship is
the sum of all they ever did, and felt, and were.
Pairing: Taeyong x Reader Genre: fratboy!au, um a lil bit of fluff??, um things get a little heated at some point Warnings: language Word count: 3,684
You whined loudly as the sound of your alarm rang through your ears. You had went to sleep at 4 am last night - or should you say this morning - after finishing up a project you had to do for your psychology major. You contemplated on skipping today’s lecture but you decided against it, as shocking as it may sound you had never skipped a lecture before. People thought of you as a goody two shoes and although that wasn’t too far from reality, you still had a wild side, you were young and in college after all.
Groaning you threw the covers off of you and made the way over to the bathroom to clean up and shake the sleep off your tired eyelids. Apparently that wasn’t enough since even after your shower you felt pretty much dead. A double shot espresso would definitely be enough to at least keep you awake until the late hours of the night.
You moaned in relief as the scalding liquid touched your lips.
“You always sound so,” Doyoung, your best friend scrunched his eyebrows as he tried to think of a word to describe what he just witnessed, “erotic when eating or drinking something you enjoy.” he finished.
“Because it feels as good as sex.”
“Oh my God.”
“You brought this upon yourself.” you shrugged as you took another sip, your eyes roaming around the cafeteria.
“There’s a party on Friday night, are you coming?” he questioned, changing the subject.
“As much as I’d love to get shit wasted, I’m gonna have to decline. A 10,000 essay calls for me.”
I’m now an incoming freshman heading off to college this fall. I’m very happy to say that I survived the college application and acceptance process. Here are some tips/advice I have for high school seniors applying to college in the U.S. Best of luck to anyone applying this fall! Feel free to drop an ask if you need advice.
Some schools use Common App, others don’t. Visit the college’s official website. If you search them on the Common App and they’re not there, chances are you’ll have to go to another website to apply.
Avoid asking friends to look over your essay. You might feel tempted to ask them for advice. You’re better off asking a teacher for critiques. They’re professionals, and they can help you get your essay in the right direction. I suggest asking English teachers because they’re great when it comes to grammatical errors and the like.
For the Common App essay, keep brainstorming. Keep writing. Keep editing. I cannot stress this enough. If you feel that your essay isn’t working, toss it out. Don’t waste your time writing something that doesn’t reflect who you are.
Avoid reading other people’s essays. There’s a reason why their prose and topic works for them. Your essay is meant to reflect who you are as an individual. Reading their essays will not help you in writing yours. There’s no formula. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t have to write about an accomplishment or the time you won something. Don’t write it for them, write it for you.
START EARLY ON ESSAYS. This is not an essay you can write the night before. A majority of colleges view your essay as one of the main factors in your acceptance. This is not something to blow off or take lightly. You need to spend at least a few weeks or more to craft your essay.
Schools will require ADDITIONAL ESSAYS. Check the Common App or an alternative website for these additional essays. They’re often called “supplemental essays.” Make sure you get these extra essays looked over as well!
Recommendations. Some colleges require none. Others ask for as many as 3. Most applications ask for a rec from a counselor and teacher. The Common App gives you the option of getting a rec from a non-academic teacher like a coach.
Some teachers get swamped with several requests for a recommendation. Start asking within the first few weeks of school.
The teachers you’re getting recs from should know you very well, they should be familiar with your success as a student and as an overall person.
If you’re planning on asking, the best way to go is by seeing the teacher in person. It’s more genuine and direct. Send an email as last resort.
Own a planner or notebook to keep track of deadlines and tasks. I suggest getting a mini notebook just for college applications. In the notebook, I would write down: deadlines, essays that need to be edited/looked over, colleges you’re applying to, transcripts that need to be sent, etc. Check off tasks when you get them done. Use the calendar for deadlines.
Work on applications during the weekday. It sounds hectic, believe me, but you’ll save yourself the stress. Work on application related tasks every night, whether it’s editing a paragraph of your essay or sending in those AP scores. That way, you can be efficient during the weekday and weekend.
DEADLINES ARE DIFFERENT FOR EARLY ACTION, EARLY DECISION, and REGULAR DECISION APPLICANTS. KEEP TRACK OF THESE DEADLINES.
Early decision: If you apply early and you get in, you’re automatically binded to that school. You must attend and decline all your other applications to other schools.
Early action: If you apply early and you get in, you don’t have to worry about applying later on. You are not binded to that school.
Regular decision: You apply at the normal deadline. They notify you later than the early applicants. You are not binded to any schools.
Do your research about your colleges, their test score policies, which AP test scores they accept, etc. Your best bet is visiting the college’s official website and/or checking the requirements on Common App. Write these down because colleges ask for different requirements.
Don’t be afraid to ask for help from a teacher, counselor, Google, a college representative, family, and your friends. They are your greatest assets. I pretty much got the best help from asking my friends because they had older siblings who went through the college app process.
Avoid College Confidential. Enough said.
Don’t hold back, and don’t give up. I never would have imagined getting into my dream school but I did. You’d be surprised at what you’re capable of as long as you stay true to yourself and work hard.
Senior year will take a lot of your time away from friends and family. Make sure to keep in touch with them frequently! Take breaks. Please do not prioritize school before your mental health. Your health is more important.
Your test scores are just a number. It does not define your actual intelligence nor does it define your value as a human being. Your scores may not be within the range of the school but it doesn’t mean you won’t get in because of it. That being said, you should still try and study for them. You have the option of taking the ACT/SAT again in senior year.
Your activities and extracurriculars are really important. Colleges want to see what you’re passionate about when you’re not a student in the classroom. They will ask you to list what clubs or activities you’ve been involved in since entering high school. Leadership positions and volunteer hours are wonderful additions.
It can get stressful and frustrating, so make sure you space out all the tasks you have to get done. Remember to take breaks, have fun, and relax once in a while. A clear, relaxed mind works better than a mind under severe stress and lack of sleep.
Senioritis is real. You sometimes have to step back and punch senioritis in the face. Even the best students fall prey to this contagious disease. Colleges DO look at your second semester grades, don’t let them slip. Start strong, finish strong.
Senior year is said to be one of the best years of your life. Sure it’s gonna get tough in the beginning but once you’re done, you’re ready to go off to college before you know it.
I moved to New York City when I was nineteen. I’m not sure that there’s ever been a place that sparkled and shone quite as much as NYC did for me that year, teeming with tangles of dirty streets, angry, honking cabs, and an endless array of scuttling rodents. I’d dreamed of this for years. Finally, it was all mine.
When I first arrived, I rented a tiny room in a hostel on the Upper West Side. My room had everything I needed: a twin bed, a desk, a mini-fridge, a heating pipe (which would burst a few weeks after I moved in, soaking all of my belongings and my brand-new forty-pound laptop), a sink, and a closet with three hangers. I shared a bathroom and a kitchen with five strangers who lived in my hallway.
At the time, I was finishing up my undergraduate degree in theater at Marymount Manhattan College. Marymount was on East Seventy-First Street, and my hostel was on West Ninety-Fourth Street. I studied the subway map (a paper map! I actually had a paper subway map!) to determine the best route between my new home and my new school. If I took the 2 train south to Times Square, I could transfer to the S train that would shuttle me across to Grand Central Station. Once there, I could transfer to the 4 train, one stop up to Fifty-Ninth Street and then transfer one more time to the 6 train to Sixty-Eighth. Boom. Four trains, no problem. This was city life. Yes!
I took those four trains twice a day. Not to brag, but I also learned how to get down to the NYU dorms at the South Street Seaport, where my then-girlfriend lived. (She was my very first girlfriend, and she was a great girlfriend. She let me smoke her cigarettes, wear her clothes, and borrow her wonderful CD mixes for my Discman-accompanied commutes.) One fateful day, I left her dorm and headed to catch the 4 train (another added bonus of staying at her place was that it only required two trains). I was wearing my favorite pair of overalls, which incidentally belonged to her and had legs that were wide enough to fit around my whole body. As I pushed through the subway trestle, I saw my train pull into the station. It had apparently only taken me three months of city living to begin to have the mind of a New Yorker, because my first instinct was to run as fast as I could to catch that train. And so, I ran.
And then, I fell.
Well… I almost fell. Truthfully, it would have been much better had I just fallen. Instead, my right foot caught in the wide swath of denim that surrounded it, and as I descended, I caught myself on the side of my left foot… and broke it.
Three months into moving to NYC, in the freezing November cold, I broke my goddamn foot.
I didn’t immediately know I’d broken it, but I did know that I was in a massive amount of pain. Not too much pain, however, to continue my now one-legged sprint to catch that train. And I did! I caught the train! No one cheered for me, but now that I understand the spirit of NYC a bit better, I’m certain they were all cheering on the inside. Once on the train and in the wake of this very real, very extreme pain, I lost awareness of what was and wasn’t acceptable train behavior. I dropped my bags in the middle of the train floor, I took off my giant winter coat, dropped it next to my bags, and I stared at my foot. That’s all I did. I just stared at my foot, sweating with pain, brow furrowed, with my belongings all around me on the subway floor. I stared at it all the way to Forty-Second Street, scooped up my things, and hobbled across the platform to transfer to the 6 train, dropped them once more on the subway floor, stared at my foot until we got to Sixty-Eighth Street, and then somehow walked, on my freshly broken foot, to my acting class. It took me almost thirty minutes to walk three street blocks and one avenue. For reference, that’s less than half a mile.
As you might expect, upon my arrival to class, my professor immediately told me to go to the walk-in clinic down the street. After x-rays, I was given a blue canvas boot and a pair of crutches, and I hobbled my way to an indulgent taxi ride back to my hostel.
In case you are unfamiliar with NYC winters, I will let you know that they are cold, they are icy, they are dirty, and they are entirely unforgiving— and all that with two working feet. I want to also remind you that my commute, up until this point, included about eight trains per day, and each of those came with ample walking and many stairs. I couldn’t get up and down stairs much at all, and certainly not when they were covered in icy slush. Suddenly, canvas boot and all, I couldn’t get anywhere.
Until, that is, I revisited my subway map and learned that NYC, in addition to its sprawling subway system, also has buses. Who. Knew. I learned (via my paper map) that just a few steps from my door was a crosstown bus that, on the regular, traveled right through Central Park to the east side. I’d been taking four trains this whole time when I could have taken just one bus? This was the first moment where the NYC I thought I knew laughed directly in my face before playfully tousling my hair. You see, NYC isn’t shy about breaking a person, bones and all, in a gesture of the warmest welcome.
I’ve now been in this city for fifteen years. I know almost every subway line and bus route that exists in nearly every borough. I traverse it with the same ease that I brush my teeth or climb into my bed. That moment, fifteen years ago in lower Manhattan, was the first of many moments (they really never stop) where I was forced to readjust, recalibrate, and further question the city, and world, around me. I had many other pivotal moments in those first few years— some with only a handful of subway passengers as my witness, and others where the whole world watched my city in confusion and wonder.
We all, inevitably, break our metaphoric (or in my case, literal) feet. Am I glad that I broke my foot? Not really. Am I glad that it made me recalibrate, readjust, and continue to question? You’d better believe I am. I needed to learn, just as we all do, that there is always more than one route on that paper map.
Hi Roxane! Almost two years ago you called for submissions to an essay anthology called Not That Bad: Dispatches From Rape Culture. What's the status? I haven't heard anything about it in a while and I would love to read it.
Not That Bad will be released in 2018! I am really excited about this anthology and I hope people find what it offers valuable.
Because of some strange, animal cunning, however, [Raskol'nikov] chose to conceal his strength for the time being, lie low, and pretend he still did not know what was going on. Meanwhile, he would listen, and try to figure out what was going on.
Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
local confused axe-murderer continues to be astonishingly relatable
(This is very much me writing on my phone and winding down after marking.)
Leonard should know better by now. At his stage in life he should be able to plan his life better so it doesn’t come down to this.
“Hey, Bones,” Jim’s far too cheerful voice prompts Leonard to raise his face from where it had fallen into his hands, and squint in Jim’s general direction. “Not that I wouldn’t find you attractive either way, but if our keep grabbi your hair like that you’re sure to go bald.”
“Fuck off, Jim,” Leonard growls, and reaches for the first PADD.
“I’d love to! But perhaps we should wait until your not drowning in PADDs.”
Leonard shoots Jim a glare that could sizzle skin at one-hundred paces, but Jim just ignores it with his usual aplomb. “I’ll get beer. Oh! And pizza! There’s this Andorian place-”
“Jim,” Leonard says with as much care as possible. “Sounds great. Why don’t you go out and get it?” Out. As in out of the house. If there’s any hope of getting this pile marked on time he’s going to have to concentrate.
Jim is not exactly conducive to concentrating.
“All right. All right. I’m going. But I expect you to take a break when I get back.”
“Yeah. Sure thing, darlin’,” Leonard replies, brow already furrowed as he tries to read the first essay and can’t make heads or tails of what the kid’s actually trying to say.
Lord help him, he’s going to die from an attack of bad grammar.
By the time Jim returns, Leonard had snapped three stylus’, with bits and pieces sticking wildly out of his hair, and his jaw is clenched as he stares down at the latest monstrosity these kids call an “analytical essay.”
“No shit, kid. Why don’t you tell me again that you’re focusing on the historical moment? What historical moment? Don’t children know how to cite sources anymore?”
“Pizza?” Jim offers instead of an answer.
“Nah, I’m not hungry yet- That’s not even the proper name of the book!” Leonard interrupts himself, and scribbles a note on the PADD.
“Beer it is!” Jim pops open two bottles of beer, and places one within easy reach. “Drink. It might be less painful.”
Three beers in, and it’s not less painful. “IT’S A MONOGRAPH, DAMMIT! NOT A NOVEL!” At least it’s the stylus flying across the room and not the PADD - the last essay had been so incomprehensible that he’d nearly chucked it at the wall just so he could have an excuse to demand a new one, and give the kid a little leeway for some serious editing.
“Find another fucking word,” Leonard mumbles as he bends over the PADD. “I get it. It’s a source, but do you have to say it three times in one sentence as well as every fucking paragraph.”
Jim curls up next to Leonard, finishing off the pizza he hadn’t touched and getting comfortable.
“I…I can’t find the conclusion, Jim. Did I miss it?”
Jim leans his chin on Leonard’s shoulder, pressing up against him to get a look. “Nope. I just don’t think the wrote one.”
“But…they’re 200 words under the minimum, that’s perfect for a concluding paragraph!”
“Just think,” Jim says softly, pressing a kiss just behind his ear. “That’s one less paragraph you have to look at.”
“You make a good point,” Leonard says gruffly, and reaches for the next PADD on the stack.
Jim reaches out with him and lays his fingers lightly over Leonard’s wrist. “Maybe you should stop for tonight? During that last one you actually wrote: ‘I don’t give a god damned hoot about what you believe, think, or what your pansy ass opinion is, make a god damned committed statement!’” Jim smirks. “I think I got that verbatim, good thing you didn’t send that off for review.”
“I can’t. I’ve gotta finish at least half of these.” No sooner do Leonard’s eyes land on the assignment, than does his eyebrow start twitching.
Jim watches in fascinated concern as Bones clearly tries to suppress another outburst.
"THE GODDAMNED HISTORICAL SOURCE IS NOT A FUCKING NOVEL CHILDREN. IT IS NON-FICTIONAL. IT IS A MONOGRAPH, A HISTORICAL TEXT. USE TEXT! NOT NOVEL!“
"All right.” Jim snatches the PADD out of Leonard’s hand and throws it back onto the pile as he climbs into Leonard’s lap. “I can’t just sit here and watch you give yourself an aneurysm.”
“I can’t actually-”
Jim interrupts Bones in the only way he knows will work without fail. He leans in, and brushes his lip over Leonard’s, and reaches to guide Leonard’s hands to Jim’s hips. “Shhh,” Jim whispers, pressing another warm, unhurried kiss to Leonard’s lips, sliding their lips together slowly.
“It’s time for me to assist,” Jim smirks, threading his fingers through Leonard’s hair. “How shall I help you, professor?”
Leonard groans, his hands tightening on Jim’s hips to pull him more firmly in his lap. His eyes slide half closed and he pulls Jim into a biting kiss. “Oh,” he hums in the back of his throat. “I’m sure we can come up with a lesson plan.”
Last month, the fashion designer Tory Burch launched an ad campaign called “Embrace Ambition.” It features black-and-white photos of celebrities wearing various slogan-brandishing T-shirts: Mindy Kaling wears “BOLD,” Kate Bosworth wears “STRONG,” Burch herself wears “AMBITIOUS.” This last T-shirt can be purchased on the Tory Burch Web site for sixty-eight dollars. For the thriftier shopper, there are thirty-dollar bracelets, which come on a placard saying “#EMBRACEAMBITION” and “JOIN THE MOVEMENT.” Proceeds from this merchandise are directed toward the Tory Burch Foundation, which helps support women entrepreneurs. (It administers a small fellows program and connects women to business education and affordable loans.) A New York Times piece about the “Embrace Ambition” campaign calls it a “public service announcement” aiming to reclaim what has become a dirty word.
Burch aims to be apolitical: she told the Times that she wants her campaign to be something that “unites, rather than divides” the country and pointedly noted that she has “lots of Republican friends.” Which is partly why the campaign feels so beside the point. Women’s ambition is still structurally hampered, as it always has been in this country, by failures of policy—the absence of paid family leave and decent worker protections, for instance. (To this effect, the Tory Burch Foundation did publish an interview with Lilly Ledbetter on Equal Pay Day.) But in much of American popular culture women’s ambition is now encouraged at a fever pitch. Ads frequently show images of frighteningly ambitious women: a recent Equinox campaign showed a model sitting in a restaurant, wearing expensive formalwear and breastfeeding twins. It is standard practice for mainstream women’s publications to celebrate any woman who has achieved any degree of wealth or prominence, regardless of what that success might be or mean. On the Tory Burch Foundation’s Instagram account, you’ll find dozens of celebrities promoting #EmbraceAmbition as if it were a clean-water initiative. Ambition, for women, has been marketed as a mandate, and the model of ambition that’s most commonly marketed tends to resemble Ivanka Trump—the superficially appealing woman who can pay to have it all.
A new anthology of essays about women and ambition, “Double Bind,” edited by the fiction and memoir writer Robin Romm, tries to embrace the concept in a more substantive way. In her introduction, Romm, who is in her early forties, writes about her sense, as a young woman, that “striving and achieving had to be approached delicately or you risked the negative judgment of others.” She felt a pull between the hardness of her ambition and the softness of her socialization, and calls this “the double bind of the gender, success paired eternally with scrutiny and retreat.”
Romm notes that many contributors to “Double Bind”—a group that includes Molly Ringwald, Ayana Mathis, Roxane Gay, Francine Prose, and Lan Samantha Chang—found this project difficult. Ambition “felt connected to deeply private impulses and actions that made them too vulnerable,” Romm writes. It seems, too, that, as an abstract idea, ambition is just fiendishly complicated to write about. It is at once deeply idiosyncratic and indicative of larger cultural forces; in many of the essays, the writers seem to be inwardly thrashing against the idea that they could generate meaningful insights on the subject. Work at what matters to you, the essays say. Prepare for thrills and compromises, particularly involving children. Consider my doubts about my own achievements. Strive for an ending of rueful hope.
Reading one crackling, cheerless narrative after another, I started to feel that there was another—and possibly trickier—conflict at work. Ambition will always be complicated for women, and not just because of external impediments: it is an imperfect drive, enacted in imperfect circumstances, that inevitably leads to imperfect things. The more compelling essays in “Double Bind” address this head on. Elizabeth Corey, a political-science professor at Baylor, cautions against the extreme focus on success and productivity that one sees applied to both work and motherhood. “We simply cannot approach marriage and family in the spirit of achievement at all,” she writes. The novelist Claire Vaye Watkins writes about a trip back to her home town, Pahrump, Nevada, where being on “free lunch means you’re a scrounge, but reduced lunch means you’re regular.” Only two kinds of people make it out of there, she explains: “kids gunning for something and kids running away.” When Watkins meets a promising young student, she wants to both help her and caution her. Watkins was a runner, and she’s melancholically aware of the dislocations that her ambition has caused.
In a spirited, cutting essay called “Snarling Girl,” the novelist Elisa Albert reorients the entire premise of “Double Bind.” “Maybe my great ambition, such as it is, is to refrain from engagement with systems that purport to tell me what I’m worth compared to anyone else,” she writes. She adds, “What I would like to say is Lean In my hairy Jewish ass.” Albert spells out the foolishness of trying to generalize about ambition: the desire to be a first-generation college student isn’t easily comparable to the desire to shatter a glass ceiling or own a luxury car or write a work of genius. “Our contexts are not the same, our struggles are not the same, and so our rebellions and complacencies and conformities and compromises cannot be compared.” To Albert, ambition is a quality that arises organically from both vanity and a genuine wish to do good work; it’s also something she regards as alien and horrific. “So you got what you wanted and now you want something else,” she writes. “You probably worked really hard; I salute you… . But if you have ever spent any time around seriously ambitious people, you know that they are very often some of the unhappiest crazies alive, forever rooting around for more, having a hard time breathing and eating and sleeping, forever trying to cover some hysterical imagined nakedness.” Albert’s essay is easily the most ambitious in the collection.
There’s an infantilizing undertone that is often present in the discussions of women’s ambition happening right now. On the Web site for the Tory Burch Foundation, you’ll find an ambition pledge (“I will: Embrace ambition. Proudly articulate my ambition. Not hide it”) and an “Ambition Guidebook,” which encourages you to “gather your favorite pen, pencil, colored pencils or markers.” Within that guidebook, there’s a box for writing down ten things you love about yourself, and another box in which you can “draw or write your dreams.”
Another prominent symbol of female ambition put forward this year is a statue of an elementary-school student: the bronze “Fearless Girl” staring down the famous bull on Wall Street. The statue was conceived by an advertising agency for an investment firm whose twenty-eight-person leadership team contains five women; according to the sculptor, Kristen Visbal, the statue “reminds us today’s working woman is here to stay.” It’s dismaying, and revealing, that this message is most easily conveyed through a figure of a girl—her skirt and ponytail blown back in the breeze, cheerfully unaware of the strained, exhausted, overdetermined future that awaits her.