idk how to phrase this but like. people retroactively calling Fleabag a privileged, dissociative portrayal of feminism which is Bad, Actually, are lowkey deranged to me because, yeah, Fleabag IS about the expierience of womanhood. but like. through the lens of ONE woman? like, nowhere in the show is it ever implied that fleabag's expieriences are supposed to be universal, relateable core pillars to womanhood?
its almost like half of the population of the world is female and I think it's kind of weird that all stories about women always have to be feminist and activist, and can not just be an exploration of an imperfect woman, they have to be correct about *all* of womanhood?
i also think that the people saying this don't really understand the character of fleabag and i do think that the show is feminist in many ways, but even when no person working on this show would have had any intention of making this a "feminist story", i think that would have been their right to do that?
breaking bad, fight club, american psycho, lolita, etc. all tell the stories of white men who are objectively horrible people. and these stories still treat these characters with a level of empathy and understanding of how they got there and why they are like that. the stories don't excuse their behavior because of that, they are simply a fictional analysis of a person who is not virtuous or good in a lot of ways.
but women, people of color, disabled people, and other minorities are never given the same right to just tell a story about a character, the character has to be virtuous, a good role model, a representation of their whole group, likeable, flawed only in an "unproblematic" way, never make a bad decision, and its insanely limiting in what stories can be told by writers, when they want the approval of the general audience
and i so genuinely want more fleabag women, who may interact with feminism, but who are actual human beings in a real world, who have real flaws and who can be selfish and cruel, but who are still treated with empathy by the story
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I often do think it is important to call myself a woman. In past I've had kids ask me "are you a man or a girl" and in hindsight I think these kids were quite perceptive of the world. Especially when you're in your 20s it's men and girls, I've seen students write pieces describing themselves as men, but their female peers of the same age they call girls, but I have also heard bisexual women say they like both men and girls. In past I've fallen into that myself and said that yeah I'm a lesbian I like girls, but do I? No I am in my twenties and I am actually only attracted to my fellow adults - women. It does feel more serious, less trivial, both to be and be attracted to women as opposed to girls, and that can be a bit uncomfortable to be faced with. It is also important to me as a butch. I am no longer a tomboy I am a butch I am no longer a girl I am a woman. I am a woman and women can be like me. I don't feel like I've succeeded enough at adulting to call myself a woman, but that doesn't matter. I am 25, and if the word bears other connotations so be it, that's not my problem.
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for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.
i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.
in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.
the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.
i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.
i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.
i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.
the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.
when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.
we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.
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Having this kink is so funny because You will have a crush on someone and think they are soooooo fucking hot and they will stand there and tell you that they are insecure about their body and you will have to do the equivalent of locking your brain in a straitjacket to formulate a response that sounds supportive and socially acceptable when the reality is that you would commit atrocities just to kiss their stomach ONCE. That, if given the opportunity, you would worship them like they were royalty. And you would do this in both a non-kinky way because you love them and think they are beautiful and wish that they could see themself the way you see them but also in the kinky way where it feels like there’s a feral dog inside of you that wants to sink it’s teeth into the softness of them and never let go. You have to stand there and think to yourself “you have no idea the things I would do to you. You have no idea just how desirable you are.” And it’s honestly unbearable !!!!!
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Marlene: I just saw regulus kissing-
Remus: no you didn’t
Sirius: regulus kissing who?
Marlene:
Marlene: nobody…
Mary: guys I just saw james kissing-
Remus: for the love of god!
Sirius: who was james kissing?
Marlene:
Mary:
Remus:
Sirius:
Sirius: where they kissing… eachother?
everyone: *slowly nodding*
Sirius: im going to be sick
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