Goodbye Carrie Fisher, drowned in moonlight,  strangled by her own bra. 

​I generally dislike the snowflake especial, self aggrandisement of bipolar disorder, where it’s treated like some sort of wonderful gift or quirky personality trait. 

It’s usually a thing that men do because famous men have so very much less to lose by being open about mental illness and bipolar disorder gets them their, “Tortured genius” badge, whereas it gives woman their “Tragic Slut” or “Psycho Bitch” one.

Carrie Fisher owned being a mad woman,  being mad in a way only men are allowed to be (not quietly, and with a massive side order of coke and booze), and at a time when women shouldn’t be, and being totally fucking unashamed of it, as well as hilarious, human and seemingly bereft of self pity. If women are to be forgiven for their transgressions (mostly imagined),  it is only by wilting quietly and apologetically.   She didn’t. She bloomed and had her bollocks out and wrote so, so beautifully about ugly, funny, wonderful, painful things. 

She was a hero to me and many, the kind of princess I wanted to be.  There’s a lot more I can and will say another time but for now- goodbye,  Carrie Fisher. 

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