I can't believe she's gone. Drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra.
As if this year hasn't been shitty enough. As if I haven't had the heart to write anything for months now, because I've been too depressed about
fucking everything in the whole entire world: the blatant disregard for human rights at Standing Rock, the unapologetic racism and misogyny that has spiked since the inexplicable election of the Manic Mango. This year - for a lack of more profound phrasing - has sucked. It had been a long descent down a shit chute into the Porto Potty pit of despair. I haven't even gotten over David Bowie yet, because seriously - how is it even physically possible that he could die? But no, 2016 just couldn't be content with robbing us of the Gene Jeanie on January 10th. It had to rub the irony of George Michael's
"Last Christmas" right up our noses. And now this. The Cinnamon Bun Queen. The Intergalactic Angel. The coked-out, stardust-tripping, manic Playboy Bunny dancing Go-Go Roller Skating, pixie stick snorting, blackout drunk, knockout gorgeous, feisty sparkplug of pure insomnia and insane pink glitter Princess of the Fucking Universe. Carrie Fucking Fisher. A lot of people will tell you that her middle initial stood for Frances. It absolutely did not. It stood for
"FUCKING!" Written in all caps, in bold. She was Carrie Fucking Fisher and don't you forget it. No one will ever be Carrie Fucking Fisher. She was a tiny little supernova in a brass bikini, bitch.
Carrie Fucking Fisher is at least 80% of the reason I am the outspoken, uppity, foul-mouthed, opinionated, terminally single bitch I am today. When I was seven years old, I saw
Star Wars. It was mandatory viewing in 1977. I remember watching Princess Leia slide into view, wide eyed and doe-pretty, her face so sweet and china-doll perfect. This would be the Girl Who Needed Saving. She was a princess, she was pretty, foregone conclusion, right?
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| "Ugh, as if." |
Fuck no. In the very next scene, her serene beauty is replaced by a determined grimace of rebellion and rage. She fires her fucking gun and blows a goddamned stormtrooper into shrapnel. BAM, right on his ass. Yeah okay, so she quickly gets a stun ray to her side and is captured, but does she cry? Or beg and plead for her little life? Or drum her tiny little fists upon the armored chests of her captors? Fuck that. She insults them. She sticks that pert little nose of hers right up in the air and looks all the way down it. For a couple of seconds, she's taller than Darth Vader, who towers over her by nearly two feet. You can hear her sizzling and snapping like raw bacon on a hot plate. How fucking DARE you touch me, you are
so not even cool enough to breathe the same
air as me! She is PISSED. She got caught, she knows she's going to be executed, but she's still going to tell you that you're stupid, you smell bad and she hates your guts. She's Princess Honey Badger and she doesn't give a shit.
Princess Leia taught me some valuable lessons. She taught me that you don't have to be blond to be a pretty princess. You don't have to wait for someone else to save you, you can save your own ass. You can be a princess and still know how to fire a gun, fight like a boy, cuss like a sailor, smack a bitch down with your verbal superiority, give prize winning rotten looks, kick ass, take names, dress stylishly but practically, drink any man under the table, rank all of them to the dogs and back and still be the girl with the most cake at the end of it all. Princess Leia didn't
need anybody. If she cared about you, you were goddamned lucky to have earned her fucking respect. If she chose to love you, you must really be special. If you earned her disdain, you had it coming in spades and nobody is going to save you from her wrath. Get the hell out of her way. She will mow you the hell down with her mutherfucking aura and not even look back long enough to scrape you off her shoe.
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| Laverne & Carrie |
The disco 70s turned into the cocaine 80s and I still worshiped that woman. She admitted to being a coke vacuum. She confessed to drinking like an open drain. She somehow managed to make Paul Simon look cool for a brief time. She owned up to being a hot, crazy mess before being a hot, crazy mess was vogue. I respected her mightily for her ability and enthusiasm for making fun of herself, refusing to take herself seriously, making an art of out her asshattery. She never tried to be anyone other than Carrie Fucking Fisher, glaring flaws worn like bling: proudly and often.
I cannot believe she's gone. 60 is criminally young to be plucked from This Mortal Coil. She wasn't done living. God made a mistake - it wasn't her time. I can hear her up in Heaven, saying:
"Wtf, for real?" She had more salt and vinegar left in her than the entire Frito Lay corporation. She had so many
Fuck You's left to say, so many smartass grins still to flash.
I still want to be Carrie Fisher when I grow up. Therefore, I will never fully grow up. I will never be perfect. I will always be tripping over my own panties and fucking up for everyone to see and making sure to loudly say:
"Hey, did you just see me totally fuck up? You saw that, right?" That was Carrie Fucking Fisher's talent. She was totally normal in the kind of way that only truly fucked up famous people can be normal; by acknowledging their fuck-uppedness and refusing to pretend they're anything other than fucked up. She carted her Crazy around in an inflatable kiddie pool and wallowed in it for all to see, whenever the fuck she felt like it. She was the ultimate badass. She took no shit and made no excuses. I admired her for that, always.
You were perfect, Princess. Because you weren't.
You were my idol.
I loved you, Carrie. I will always love you.
