occasionally I will explode into a cloud of Joe Liebgott feelings; this is perfectly normal and will pass as soon as it comes.
when we talk about women in refrigerators it’s not always something super literal
i don’t imagine in writers room across the globe they’re all sitting there like “well we’re out of ideas let’s fridge another one” (but maybe they do i have no idea)
but what’s happening consciously or unconsciously writers are deciding that women are more valuable dead then alive. this goes way back. this is poe saying there’s nothing more poetic than the death of a beautiful woman. this is a dozen pre raphaelite paintings of ophelia drowning because they found her suffering erotic. this is the first reaction to laura palmer’s body being found being, “she was so beautiful.”
fuck this. fuck this.
i’m sick of writers getting passes. fuck this. our strong women are taken from us. we don’t get survivors. we don’t get triumph. women get chopped into artistic little pieces for the male heroes to choke own because we’re more valuable this way. because this way you don’t have to worry about our hopes and fears and opinions because we’re dead and dead women tell no tales. they can’t speak out against injustice because men took their tongues. and they think it’s beautiful. death, the ultimate passivity, the ultimate waiting room, is the most beautiful thing of all. there’s nothing more poetic than the death of a beautiful woman.
women matter. they matter when they are living. not listening to women while their still breathing is a failure and should not be regarded as anything else. it is a failure with very serious effects
ps i’m going to california for the next 5 days for a quidditch tournament my life is a joke
catch u on the flipside~
i will never be over the fact that during first contact a human offered their hand to a vulcan and the vulcan was just like “wow humans are fucking wild” and took it
watched pride & prejudice again, mr darcy is still the character i identify with the most
such awkward ❤
Lucy Pevensie: Oh, you shake it.
Mr. Tumnus: Why?
Lucy Pevensie: I… I don’t know.