I’m thinking of starting a petition to replace all white cisgender male writers and directors in the MCU with Griffin McElroy. I doubt he wants the job, but boy do I trust him with a narrative.
Everyone should listen to The Adventure Zone.
there’s only one white man i trust and it’s that sweet baby brother and 30 under 30 media luminary griffin mcelroy
I’m trying to think of a white man I trust who isn’t gay. Surely there must be one.
I’m thinking of starting a petition to replace all white cisgender male writers and directors in the MCU with Griffin McElroy. I doubt he wants the job, but boy do I trust him with a narrative.
Everyone should listen to The Adventure Zone.
I don’t know his work, but this is probably a good idea.
*Also, I don’t know of any women looking at herself in the mirror and getting turned on by her own boobs. We appreciate that some days they look better than other days, but that’s about it. Just FYI. Stop writing that scene.
the funniest thing about asking for representation is that the antis will tell you that it is better a good character than a character thats solely their gender and sexuality. tell me antoher caracteristic of every male protagonist of mainstream action films other than masculine hetero macho man
what the fuck is with men and how they write women taking showers honestly. like all of that back-arching mouth-half-open luxoriously-running-fingers-through-hair shit. straight dudes thinkin girls are like damn-near climax from just being naked, whats w/ that
from now on the only female shower scenes ill accept involve either; a).
sitting in a ball on the shower floor or b). standing completely still while staring into the abyss absentmindedly and scratching your ass. anything else gets a 0 and a “see me after class”
Men who do this refuse to conceptualise female nudity as anything other than a sexualised performance designed to titillate them. They feel so entitled to our private lives that they create this horrible, voyeuristic fantasy whereby everything we do (even when completely alone) is about being sexy for them. This in turn informs fantasies whereby they seek to violate our private lives through surveilling us, whereby they see our desire for privacy as nothing but a conscious, coquettish refusal to titillate them.
In writing us this way, they deny us our humanity by denying that we ever exist and think and feel externally to them.
The pretentious man writing my life: this is what drove him crazy about her, her wildness, her insanity. One moment she was peaceful, the artist in her nest – the next, she dived into chaos, dined on it, challenged it. Just when he thought he understood her, she moved to again rewrite her definition, always unknowable, always glittering like the ocean, hinting at a story yet untold, laughing at a joke not meant for him, her eyes twinkling with secrets and humor and the otherworldly feminine. She was surrounded by color, loved it so much she tried to pour it inside of her, tried to poison herself with it, tried to paint even her organs. He wanted to kiss her, to entangle that art into his own skin – but the moment was passed. She was again order, peace. The chaos ceased. He didn’t even get to touch her boobies.
