Download Sex Object: A Memoir by Jessica Valenti PDF

By Jessica Valenti

Writer and mother or father US columnist Jessica Valenti has been prime the nationwide dialog on gender and politics for over a decade. Now, in a darkly humorous and bracing memoir, Valenti explores the toll that sexism takes from the on a daily basis to the existential.

Sex item explores the painful, humorous, embarrassing, and occasionally unlawful moments that formed Valenti’s early life and younger maturity in ny urban, revealing a miles shakier internal lifestyles than the convinced character she has cultivated as probably the most recognizable feminists of her iteration.

In the culture of writers like Joan Didion and Mary Karr, this literary memoir is certain to surprise these already conversant in Valenti’s paintings and enthrall those people who are simply discovering it.

“Jessica Valenti is a breath of clean air. She deals the type of uncooked honesty that may think like a punch within the intestine, yet leaves you with the heat of a deep embrace.” – Ms. Magazine

“One of the main obvious and winning feminists of her generation.” – Washington Post

“A gutsy younger 3rd wave feminist.” – the recent York occasions

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Additional info for Sex Object: A Memoir

Sample text

I told him beforehand that he should know if I ever became pregnant I wouldn’t have an abortion under any circumstances. I told him what had happened months earlier and he understood. A few months into our relationship my first book was released and his grandmother passed away. I sent flowers because it seemed like the adult thing to do and I imagined that his parents couldn’t have been thrilled with their just-out-of-college son dating a woman nearing thirty. I thought that if I could prove I was a responsible kind of grown-up woman—a thoughtful person rather than the emotionally messy, desperately-searching-for-solid-ground woman-child I knew myself to be—they would like me.

I decided, consciously, that I would not do these things anymore: drugs, date assholes, believe that my professional good fortune had nothing to do with my ability. And so I published a book meant for young women who didn’t quite know if they were feminists or not and threw a party to celebrate, and my mother brought a salad and spinach pie she made at home to put out for the people who came. Andrew was in California visiting his grandmother. And so I got drunk and snorted Adderall in the bathroom, cleaning my nostrils of the blue powder before going back out.

I do know, though, that a lot of us point and laugh. The strategy of my aunts and mother is now my default reaction when a fifteen-year-old on Instagram calls me a cunt or when a grown-up reporter writes something about my tits. Just keep pointing and laughing, rolling your eyes with the hope that someone will finally notice that this is not very funny. Pretending these offenses roll off of our backs is strategic—don’t give them the fucking satisfaction—but it isn’t the truth. You lose something along the way.

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