Lilo and Stitch. The Original “Body Positive” Disney Cartoon.
I love how Nani wasn’t stick thin like the rest of disney girls.
Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive.
Also, I took this picture of Felicia Day and Joss Whedon during the Writer’s Strike in 2006.
When we started casting, we had archetypes in mind, which were Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. We were really looking for Sam to be empathetic, kind, and likeable, and really the audience surrogate. The person who the audience would most see themselves as and really carry the story through their eyes. And that required a really unique likeability. For Dean, we were looking for Han Solo. We were looking for devil-may-care, charismatic, a little rough around the edges, a little edgy, says things that are not always the kindest thing, as long as they’re funny. And that was really what we started out with.
And Jared and Jensen both just so inhabited those parts, and then proceeded to blow us away with how dimensionalized they were. For Jensen, the level of emotion and totally flawed, screwed-to-hell psyche that he brings to Dean, we really are enamored with. This idea that on the surface here’s this Han Solo devil-may-care persona, but when you really scratch beneath the surface, you see that anyone who has that persona has it because they are just so messed up, and that you would have to be so screwed up and damaged to be the person who always jumps first off a cliff.
So, he really brought Dean to life in a really three-dimensional way, and Jared did the same thing with Sam. Yes, Sam was likeable, and the audience surrogate and all the things he was supposed to be, but also angry, and disaffected, and, at times, hilariously funny, loyal, and despondent. He brought in all of these different colors that have really brought these characters to life, which I think is probably very rare for a genre show to have—characters as dimensionalized as ours—and I’m really proud of it. - Eric Kripke [x]
(Dear Scott,) It’s ghastly losing your mind and not being able to see clearly, literally or figuratively—and knowing that you can’t think and that nothing is right, not even your comprehension of concrete things like how old you are or what you look like.
Where are all of my things? I used to have dozens of things and now there doesn’t seem to be any clothes or personal things in my trunk—I’d love the gramophone.
What a disgraceful mess—but if it stops our drinking it is worth it, because then you can finish your novel and write a play and we can live somewhere and can have a house with a room to paint and write like we had, with friends for Scottie and there will be Sundays and Mondays again which are different from each other and there will be Christmas and winter fires and pleasant things to think of when you’re going to sleep—and my life won’t lie up the back-stairs of music-halls and yours won’t keep trailing down the gutters of Paris—if it will only work, and I can keep sane and not a bitter maniac—
I have not the slightest indication of what your intentions are towards me. After five months of suffering and misery and isolation, at least the pathological side of my illness has disappeared. For the rest, I am a woman of thirty and, it seems to me, entitled to some voice in decisions concerning me. I have had enough and it is simply wasting my time and ruining my health keeping up the absurd pretense that a lesion in my head is curable. Will you make the necessary arrangements that I leave here and seek some satisfactory life for myself or shall I write to Daddy that he should come over?…I believe three months is the usual limit of these sorts of struggles and I have no intention of any longer internment. If you want an idea of what it’s like, you might pass up your next tennis game.