I don’t know how to explain this well…but I’m 30 years old and I feel like I’ve had to ‘sacrifice’ my entire adult life to unprecedented times, the pandemic and daily anxiety over hateful politicians and whatever rights they want to take away on any given day and I’m just so fucking tired

this is a fun post because people will say how many they have in the tags then you get to figure out which ones.

they really gave us a female lead in a star wars movie & made her kind and good and angry and powerful and complex & then spent the next 2 movies revolving almost her entire storyline around a white male war criminal who abused her, abused her friends, abused her family. all the while validating all the people who romanticized gaslighting and torture. for fan service lmao 

they also gave us a strong black male lead who was kind and rebelled against his entire way of life when he saw the atrocities he was expected to take part in. He risked his life to save others and was shown to love and care deeply for his friends and willing to sacrifice himself to save him. Then the next two movies infantilize him to be this weak self preserving side character with literally no agency beyond yelling other character’s names.

They also gave us a Latino sci-fi hero who was an ace fighter pilot with a heart of gold and a wealth of courage who showed an incredible amount of support and kindness and trust towards a man who he had just met. Then the next two movies relegated him to being a chronic fuck-up and then ret-conned his ace pilot backstory in service of a racist drug dealer backstory to make him more like Han Solo

looking back on old photos of yourself is an act of mourning, always. how many times have you looked at pictures of yourself from even just a few months ago and thought “who is that? did i look like that? she’s beautiful” but fail to reconcile it with how you felt. that girl is me and that girl is beautiful but i have never been her, y’know? and the cycle is endless. i am always longing to be myself from two years ago, or six months ago, or last night. SHE was beautiful in ways i don’t know how to be now. i’m grieving for the death of my past selves, constantly, and grieving for the time they wasted mourning THEIR predecessors when they could’ve been feeling beautiful. in between disparaging remarks about the weight she holds around her midsection, my mother shows me photos from when she was younger and handles them gently; “i was kind of a looker back then, wasn’t i?” i wonder what i’ll be saying about this body in thirty years. i wonder if it’ll be kind