Not interested in your banthashit. Carrie Fisher, actress, writer, feminist, badass on- and offscreen, has died.
This report of death comes at the public request of Fisher herself, following this exchange with George Lucas, recounted in her book, Wishful Drinking:
Anyway, George comes up to me on the first day of filming and he takes one look at the dress and says, “You can’t wear a bra under that dress.”
So, I say, “Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
And he says, “Because… there’s no underwear in space.”
I promise you this is true, and he says it with such conviction too! Like he had been to space and looked around and he didn’t see any bras or panties or briefs anywhere.
[…]
[H]ere’s why you cannot wear your brassiere, per George. So, what happens is you go to space and you become weightless. So far so good, right? But then your body expands??? But your bra doesn’t — so you get strangled by your own bra. Now I think that this would make for a fantastic obit — so I tell my younger friends that no matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra.
(Apparently, a bronze bikini does not suffer the same inelasticity issues as a standard intergalactic sports bra.)
She was an inspiration to thousands of girls who saw in her not the slave girl in the bikini but the woman who strangled Jabba the Hutt with the chain of her oppression, who was smart and determined and a badass with a blaster. And she was an inspiration to many as an advocate for mental health, open about her mental illness and addiction and recovery, honest and unashamed, self-aware and funny. She went through the shit and came out strong, but not unbreakably so, because that’s the way people do, and to expect otherwise is unrealistic, and she was honest about that, too. That she’s gone is unfair and too soon; that she went out as General Organa, tough but human, tired but determined, leading the Resistance, presumably wearing a bra, because goddammit, she’s earned it by now, seems apt. R.I.P.