I think the main thing is that “hawkeye hasn’t been mentioned as a part of Phase 2 or 3”

I mean he was TECHNICALLY and by a lot of people’s opinions, a supporting character. Did we know Rhodey was coming back is Iron Patriot until last minute? No. it was rumored, but we didn’t know for sure. Did we know Natasha was going to have a big role in Cap 2? Not until it started shooting (that would have a been a good place for hawkguy but that’s beyond the point). Iron Man did great, but that didn’t stop them from replacing Rhodey, because he didn’t have much of a role until the second film. Incredible Hulk did alright, ed norton is a diva and they had to replace him, but not as many people saw hulk as they did Avengers. For all intents and purposes, Ruffalo IS the original hulk. Renner came onto the scene and stole A LOT of people’s hearts, and with such a high profile, important role, I don’t really think it would behoove renner or marvel studios to replace him and frankly I think they know that.

Now the marvel universe if filling up fast, Falcon, Winter Solider, Agent 13, Scarlet Which and and Quicksilver (rumored, though Joss Whedon confirmed a brother/sister duo). But would they really take out something with the potential for SO MUCH? as of now all the issues we have he could possibly deal with are: his relationship with Black Widow, PTSD from Lokiddnapping, Deafness, Loss of his handler Phil Coulson. and that’s just the start. In the comics he leads the Secret Avengers for a while, and his leaving for the west coast avengers is one of huge tipping points in the Civil War series between capsicle and Fe-Man. And Civil War has been hinted at (oh please god no I can’t handle it I cant even handle TWS). 

Do I blame Renner for being peeved with his role in Avengers? No. it wasn’t what he signed up for. Honestly, I was probably as shocked as he was. and I understand that he emotional depth for a flying monkey is pretty nil. but do I think this would stop him from taking up a role where he gets to actually play the character? No. because when he wasn’t being Loki’s plaything, he was a bamf and Renner had a lot of fun with the cast, crew, and his job.

this is just my opinion, but at someone who has been following marvel studios and phase one for years, there have been very few bad decisions on Marvels part. the only one I can think of is Iron Man 3 (and it wasn’t bad. I’m just bitter).

So lets all calm down for a moment. and if they do replace him or cut him out, write some very terse letters to Kevin Feige.

Joss Whedon, my absolute role model got a twitter (@jossactual), and I’d appreciate if you could tweet at him daily to read my (@hannahhisdead)’s screenplay, The Scarlet Leaf. which can be found HERE :D so you can tweet him the link!

please please please please help my dreams come true. all I want is for him to read it.

Dear Motorboat aka: Big Kitty, You were my first pet. I got you when I was four years old, I am now 21. You were a fat, lazy, cuddly, and awesome. I could always count on you to eat all the fish food and shed on everything. You taught me responsibility and compassion and how to grow the most potent catnip in the land. You were loud, and brash, and the real life version of Garfield. when you were ten you were getting arthritis, but you still liked to chase the laser, and I admire that. That was when I had to give you up. I cried so hard that day. But you were able to live out your days with a nice lady and your cat-life partner. I’m sure you’re in kitty heaven binge eating fancy feast and cat nip and napping with him, or at least waiting for him. Thank you for all the lessons, cuddles, and scratches. I love you.

Dear Climber aka: Little Kitty #1, you were an amazing cat, and you were a brother to Big Kitty. You were so beautiful and hilarious. your affinity for boxes and bags was endearing, and I thank you for letting me share those spaces with you. I also loved how cuddly you were. it was great. Unfortunately you were very sick. You didn’t make it to two years old. You got pneumonia twice seriously, and the second time you also got a urinary tract infection that turned fatal. The vet said that you had a weakened immune system and over sized heart and we had to put you down. Caring for you, giving your medicine, and spending  your final days with you was heart breaking. But it was a good experience. I learned about death, and sickness from you at the tender age of nine. I appreciate all that you taught me, and I’m glad that we were able to help you pass peacefully. I love you.

Dear Nola, aka: Little Kitty #2, sorry for the girl name, they told us you were a girl, but you had fuzzy kitty balls. It’s okay, you only knew yourself as Little Kitty anyways. You were hilarious. I loved watching you do back flips while you were catching your string toy. It was fun to pick you up because you’d go boneless and you were like a limp noodle. You were half the size of big kitty, but you two were so in love. It was so great to see you two care for each other and support each other. Sometimes you fought, but you always made up. Your curiosity was astounding. I admire the way you always tried to play with the dog. I’m glad you were able to go with Big Kitty to your new home and support each other. I refused to let you two be split up because it would have broken your hearts. by now you would be 12 years old, and if you didn’t pass of a broken heart when BK died, I hope you are resting comfortably and watching birds. Thank you for all the entertainment. I love you.

Dear Lucky, You were the best dog a person could ask for. You were four when we rescued you from that men’s halfway house. You had cigarette burns on your ear, you were beaten half blind and without much sense of smell left. but you were the most amazingly sweet dog. also the best guard dog ever. Being half pittbull and half black lab you were a stocky, seventy pounds of muscle and love. I remember the first time we took you to the lake. I had to teach you how to jump off the dock, but once you figured it out, you were in love with the water. we could hardly get you out. One day you swam out too far to get the ball lost in the waves by the wind, and you couldn’t hear us. You just kept swimming. I jumped in, fully clothed after you. By the time I got to you, I was to tired to swim back. but you pulled me back to shore and saved my life. You saved me from my abusive father, from an attempted break in, and more than a few creeps. You were tenacious, you wouldn’t let that pure bred lab twice your size get your ball. and you NEVER give up trying to get that laser dot. Watching you play in the snow was like a treat. you were seven when I had to give you up. and that was seven years ago. You’re probably in doggy heaven now. but I am sure you spent the last years of your life in pure bliss. When the family we decided to give you to came to play with you the first time, you played with the kids for hours, and then calmly jumped into the back of their van, you knew. they had another dog you could play with, adn they lived on an apple farm with a stream. GIven how much you liked to play catch with tomatoes from the garden, I can assume you liked the apples too. thank you for the protection, and stealing my pillow, and letting me hold your bone when you chewed. it was nice to bond. I love you.

Dear Jack, after several hard years of petless sadness, my mom finally said fuck the rules and we found you. You were the last kitten left. You were the runt. you were sick. You would cough and sneeze so hard you’d poo all over yourself and I’d have to wash you in the sink and let you dry in my cleavage to keep you warm. You were afraid of patterns. You were talkative. and you were tenacious. You still are. You chew on everything. You wake me up to tell me about the spider you ate. You’re there when I come home, when I wake up, and when when I roll over. You need to eat expensive food because of your medical stuff. Your freakishly large claws get stuck on all my stuff, ripping my clothes, and sheets, and my skin. you go through a cardboard scratcher a week. but you are the light of my life. You are always there for me, you always know how to make me smile. and you are currently under my desk chewing on a book. I love you like a child.

Loki’s first day, helping Steve with a client. 

Natasha stumbles on a secret of Clint’s

Brief excerpts of the different relationships (both romantic and platonic) in the house.

Welcome to the Family.

To say I was excited for this movie is a bit of a understatement  I’ve had a count down since the release date was announced two years ago. I’ve hypothesized, done research, and followed news diligently for years for this movie. The Mandarin, Iron Man’s #1 enemy. The intense trailers with destroyed suits. Tony desperate. Pepper Potts being blown through the air. I went to the first showing possible. Excited, anxious, ready to ring in phase two. Marvel’s Avengers Movie-verse has been so well crafted, connected, and written that if it were up to me, I’d have given them every oscar in the past five years.

I was so disappointed. 

Don’t get me wrong. It was a great movie. The plot twist was AMAZING. And that’s probably what disappointed me the most. Ben Kingsley playing the Mandarin was an amazing choice. Breaking racist stereotypes and completely embraced by this incredible actor. I was excited to see him and Tony face off. Especially after all his propaganda films and the extremis suicide bomber. but boom, it’s all a facade for Killian. Which was such a good twist! Incredible! I never saw it coming. but I was excited to see Mandarin and his power rings, his ghengis-khan linage and his bitchin’ly wicked ‘tude face off with SUITLESS TONY!  or suited Tony. or really fucking anyone. but BOOM. he’s nothing. he’s a face for a fresh villain who’s only problem with Tony was essentially being the nerd shoved in the locker in high school and never getting over it.

Next we have Pepper. I understand Pepper Potts’ role in the Iron Man movies, to humanize Tony so they can keep it PG/PG-13 and not bring in the alcoholism and whatnot. She’s good at that. She’s also fucking obnoxious. Any time shit goes down she just flails and yells at Tony and ignores that Happy is head over heels in love with her. but that’s not my problem with her in the movie. So, she gets injected with Extremis. and is a super bad ass. and then, the problem that has been the problem the whole fucking movie (unstable exremis) is resolved in about fifteen seconds of dialogue. not even a shot. and she’s back to being powerless and obnoxious. yay.

then the fucking end. “Oh, JK I dont need the arc reactor.” the plot of two and a half movies just became moot. We are to assume it was the stabilized Extremis that made it possible for them to remove the shrapnel without killing him, but. isn’t tony stark without the arc reactor pretty fucking dull? isn’t that the whole point. This amazingly rich, smart, unbreakable man has one weakness. but take that away and he’s just that dick-bag Bruce Wayne. also that whole looking over the cliff into the sea with the arc reactor was totally a titanic/jewel throwing moment. 

Now there were a lot of great things in the film: Happy (despite being in a coma, his love of Pepper and Tony is endearing), the little kid (I liked him, I know I’m in the minority), Tony having panic attacks, all the cool suits, watching him powerless without JARVIS, that scene with the cable guy, how hot Guy Pearce and RDJ are. but over all I was just really underwhelmed and disappointed and I hope this is just a misstep in Phase Two and not the beginning of a trend.

Waking up with super powers used to seem crazy. But when a tenth of the world woke up one day able to bend steel girders, fly, or shoot laser beams out of their eyes, it seemed a little less crazy.

It seemed like a hoax, news outlets getting bored and over reacting. But when you see a soccer mom melt the door off a bank vault, it seems like they were on to something.

The governments scrambled as civilians gawked. I saw a pack of powered priests fighting a formation of super strippers. I gawked too.

Words like “freak” and “dangerous” were turned to ash with power beams. There was a warstrong arming it’s way into existence.

Statements like “we’re on your side,” and “we didn’t choose this” were spat at with derision. It only added fuel to the fire. For the first time you admire the Wolverine-esque man on 9th street begging for change instead of robbing a bank. But you still don’t give it to him.

There’s blood in the streets, but no one will clean it up. Infection risk. All the debates about what you would do with superpowers seem paltry compared to the horrors that are waking up everyday. 

That stack of comic books next to your bed seems moot when you wake up with a world full of X-Men.

(polished draft of something I have posted before)

Round, big, rubenesque, voluptuous, curvy, big boned, plus sized, thick, portly, corpulent, heavy, hefty, plump, large, roly-poly, wide. They’re all just “nice” ways of saying the same thing, fat.

I’ve never been thin. It’s not in my genes. Short and stout generations of German farmers have left members of looking more like Hobbits then the media-ideal likes of Elves. Regardless, most of my pre-teen and early teen years were spent running endless laps around the block, cutting portions, and trying to look like the popular girls. Teasing at school, pressure from my family, and lack of control over my weight, despite all that I did resulted as it unfortunately does in most cases like my own, total self-loathing and depression. By the time I was sixteen I had resigned myself to a life of disordered eating and baggy, ugly clothing I thought was mandatory for fat girls. After a couple very unhappy years, I happened to stumble upon a whole new world of body politics.

Like most of my generation, I spent a large portion of my time on the internet, blogging recycled emo-pop lyrics and pictures of kittens. Somewhere in the midst of this fuzzy, pop-punk period, I found my first “fatshionista.” A fatshionista is a plus sized person (gender is and optional up to said person) who breaks the typical fashion mold for people of their plus-size range. I saw chubby thighs in mini-skirts atop of long, thick muscled, Amazonian legs ending in wide width pumps. I saw bare bulging bellies in crop tops, adorned with tattoos, piercings, and pride. I saw full busts proudly displayed instead of tempered with high collared shirts, minimizer bras, and shame. I was absolutely appalled and disgusted. How dare these fat people like themselves. My stomach looks like hers, and I can’t wear something like that. How dare they take pride in their bodies. They are just promoting bad lifestyles and unhealthy behavior!

Still, I followed these people. I saturated myself with these blogs, personalities, and lifestyles. I didn’t realize at the time my hate was founded in jealousy, and my subconscious was screaming at the top of its metaphorical lungs for salvation in these free spirited fatties. These individuals, despite all my expectations, were not eating pints of ice cream with every meal and sitting on their couches all day. They were yoga swamis, marathon runners, bicycle racers, and dancers. These bodies were healthy, even if they were jiggly, round, and soft. They were fabulous, confident, and happy. For the first time in my life I pushed aside my anger towards my fat body and listened to these leaders of the body revolution. For the first time in my life I looked in the mirror and found something to like about myself.

The most common misconception about weight is that fat equals unhealthy, and skinny equals healthy. The ironically named Linda Bacon, the author of the book Health at Every Size, debunks that and similar myths. She also started the Health at Every Size movement, a pledge to promote body positivity and stop size discrimination. Bacon explains how every body has its own unique natural body weight range. Some people at their healthiest are thicker or thinner than what is seen as average. In fat-activist Hanne Blank’s book The Unapologetic Fat Girls Guide to Exercise and Other Incendiary Acts, she explains diet and exercise are important, but things like flat stomachs are not about how many crunches you do, but about your body’s natural pre-disposition towards having a flat stomach. Both women also explain how genetics really is a reason, but not an excuse. For example, I have Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, and a side effect of that is that most of my weight is carried specifically in my stomach to protect my internal organs. So I may have a round tummy, and a reason beyond genetics for my pudge, but not an excuse to be unhealthy. People like these helped to show me that being shapely does not mean out of shape, and that no matter your body type honoring it with good diet and exercise will not only bring you physical health, but mental health as well.

Confidence is key no matter what situation you’re in, and for a lot of people the right outfit can really take confidence the extra mile. When you’re outside of the “straight size” range (sizes 2-12) or the more “appealing” plus size range (sizes 14-20. USA’s national dress size average is a size 14) finding fashionable clothes becomes more like triathlon than a walk in the park. Finding things that are more than just baggy, shapeless moomoo dresses, and ill fitting elastic band pants becomes a real challenge. Here I was looking at all these dashing and daring fatties in clothes I never dreamed of wearing. One woman wore a simple cropped t-shirt that read “Fuck Flattering.” Between Tim Gunn’s eternal wisdom, drag queen superstars,  and a host of knowledgeable fatshionistas I learned the only way you’re ever going to truly find your style is to push your own boundaries. I slowly traded jeans and baggy hoodies for skirts and dresses. At first it was like being in a country where you don’t speak the language, awkward and uncomfortable. But for once I felt pretty, I felt sexy. Soon my skirts got shorter, my smile got brighter, and my hips swung with confidence. It’s still not easy to find clothes. Sizes change between brands, more fabric for bigger clothes drives up prices, and a lot to designers still refuse to include plus sized lines. Being a fatshionista means becoming a fashion McGyver. It means thrifting, altering, fashion tape, safety pins, and wearing nice underwear in case you accidentally flash private business. It means knowing the difference between “wrong size” and “wrong fit.” And most of all it means pushing boundaries, yours and everyone else’s.

We live in a world where our own bodies are political tools, and policing someone’s body and the choices they make with it are unfortunately the norm. Bodies are political, constant wars on women’s reproductive rights have turned sex lives and personal choices into highly publicized fodder. The Japanese government, in order to “promote health” have recently made a law about waistsize measurements, if you’re over the legal limit you’ll be fined. Recently a plus-sized clothing and lingerie store, Lane Bryant had a commercial forcibly pulled off the air featuring curvaceous model Ashely Graham because she was “too risqué,” despite other commercials for places like Victoria’s Secret and TV shows on the same network having models bearing just as much or even more. Shows like “Biggest Loser” are mocking overweight people and showing disordered eating and bullying because of weight in a positive light.  I have learned that loving my fat body is a political statement because I’m refusing to bow to the ideals of a misguided nation. Being proud of something most people hate is a radical idea. I’ve had little old ladies tell me that I don’t have the “right” type of body for the clothes I’m wearing. Men and women have judged me and made insults towards me based on my weight. My grandmother recently tried to bribe me to lose weight after telling me I was too fat to be worthy of my boyfriend. It doesn’t extend just to fat bodies. Thin people are also constantly assaulted with “They must have an eating disorder/tape worm/drug problem, or how else would they be so thin?” And in a society where there’s no real clear definition of what is too thin or too fat or just right people of all shapes and sizes are made to feel insecure and unworthy. Not just women are subject to this, men are constantly told they must be stronger, fitter, have more hair in the right places and less in the “wrong” places. Being happy and healthy shouldn’t be something we have to fight for or about. Every time I put on a short skirt or frosting-bright lipstick I’m making a statement about who I am, and why I am worthy. My fat body is worthy of love, of fashion, and of happiness. Every body, thin, fat, short, tall, non-gendered, male, female, black, white, freckled, or whatever is worthy of love, respect, and happiess and we need to make that a standard statement instead of hate.

The Impossible Tale of the Happy Fatty

Round, big, rubenesque, voluptuous, curvy, big boned, plus sized, think, portly, corpulent, heavy, hefty, plump, large, roly-poly. They’re all just “nice” ways of saying the same thing, fat.

I’ve never been thin. It’s not in my genes. Short and stout generations of German farmers have left members of looking more like Hobbits then the media-ideal likes of Elves. Regardless, most of my pre-teen and early teen years were spent running laps around the block, cutting portions, and trying to look like the popular girls. Teasing at school, pressure from my family, and lack of control over my weight, despite all that I did resulted as it unfortunately does in most cases like my, total self-loathing and depression. By the time I was sixteen I had resigned myself to a life of disordered eating and baggy, ugly clothing I thought was mandatory for fat girls. After a couple very unhappy years, I happened to stumble upon a whole new world of body politics.

Like most of my generation, I spent a large portion of my time on the internet, blogging recycled emo-pop lyrics and pictures of kittens. Somewhere in the midst of this fuzzy, pop-punk period, I found my first “fatshionista.” A fatshionista is a plus sized person (gender and suffix is up to said person) who breaks the typical fashion mold for people of their size range. I saw chubby thighs in mini-skirts atop of Amazonian legs ending in wide width pumps. I saw bare bulging bellies in crop tops, adorned with tattoos, piercings, and pride. I saw full busts proudly displayed instead of tempered with high collared shirts, minimizer bras, and shame. I was absolutely appalled and disgusted. How dare these fat people like themselves! My stomach looks like hers, and I can’t wear something like that! How dare they take pride in their bodies! They are just promoting bad lifestyles and unhealthy behavior!

Still, I followed these people. I saturated myself with these blogs, personalities, and lifestyles. I didn’t realize at the time my hate was founded in jealousy, and my subconscious was screaming at the top of its metaphorical lungs for salvation in these free spirited fatties. These individuals, despite all my expectations, were not eating pints of ice cream with every meal and sitting on their couches all day. They were yoga swamis, marathon runners, bicycle racers, and dancers. These bodies were healthy, even if they were jiggly, round, and soft. They were fabulous, confident, and happy. For the first time in my life I pushed aside my anger towards my fat body and listened to these leaders of the body revolution. For the first time in my life I looked in the mirror and found something to like about myself.

The most common misconception about weight is that fat equals unhealthy, and skinny equals healthy. Linda Bacon, the author of the book, “Health at Every Size,” debunks that and similar myths. She also started the Health at Every Size movement, a pledge to promote body positivity and stop size discrimination. Bacon explains how every body has its own unique natural body weight range. Some people at their healthiest are thicker or thinner than what is seen as average. In fat-activist Hanne Blank’s book “The Unapologetic Fat Girls Guide to Exercise and Other Incendiary Acts” she explains diet and exercise are important, but things like flat stomachs are not about how many crunches you do, but about your body’s natural pre-disposition towards having a flat stomach. Both women also explain how genetics really is a reason, but not an excuse. For example, I have Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, and a side effect of that is that most of my weight is carried specifically in my stomach to protect my internal organs. So I may have a round tummy, and a reason beyond genetics for my pudge, but not an excuse to be unhealthy. People like these helped to show me that being shapely does not mean out of shape, and that no matter your body type honoring it with good diet and exercise will not only bring you physical health, but mental health as well.

Confidence is key no matter what situation you’re in, and for a lot of people the right outfit can really take confidence the extra mile. When you’re outside of the “straight size” range (sizes 2-12) or the more “appealing” plus size range (sizes 14-20) finding fashionable clothes becomes more like triathlon than a walk in the park. Finding things that are more than just baggy, shapeless moomoo dresses, and ill fitting elastic band pants becomes a real challenge. Here I was looking at all these dashing and daring fatties in clothes I never dreamed of wearing. One woman wore a simple cropped t-shirt that read “Fuck Flattering.” Between Tim Gunn’s eternal wisdom and a host of knowledgeable fatshionistas I learned the only way you’re ever going to truly find your style is to push your own boundaries. I slowly traded jeans and baggy hoodies for skirts and dresses. At first it was like being in a country where you don’t speak the language, awkward and uncomfortable. But for once I felt pretty, I felt sexy. Soon my skirts got shorter, my smile got brighter, and my hips swung with confidence. But it’s not easy to find clothes still. Sizes change between brands, more fabric for bigger clothes drives up prices, and a lot to designers still refuse to include plus sized lines. Being a fatshionista means becoming a fashion McGyver. It means thrifting, altering, fashion tape, safety pins, and wearing nice underwear in case you accidentally flash yours. It means knowing the difference between “wrong size” and “wrong fit.” And most of all it means pushing boundaries, yours and everyone else’s.

We live in a world where our own bodies are political tools, and policing someone’s body and the choices they make with it are unfortunately the norm. I have learned that loving my fat body is a political statement. Being proud of something most people hate is a radical idea. I’ve had little old ladies tell me that I don’t have the “right” type of body for the clothes I’m wearing. Men and women have judged me and made insults towards me based on my weight. My grandmother recently tried to bribe me to lose weight after telling me I was too fat to be worthy of my boyfriend. It doesn’t extend just to fat bodies. Thin people are also constantly assaulted with “They must have an eating disorder/tape worm/drug problem, or how else would they be so thin?” And in a society where there’s no real clear definition of what is too thin or too fat or just right people of all shapes and sizes are made to feel insecure and unworthy. Being happy and healthy shouldn’t be something we have to fight for or about. Every time I put on a short skirt or bright lipstick I’m making a statement about who I am, and why I am worthy. My fat body is worthy of love, of fashion, and of happiness. Every body, thin, fat, short, tall, intersex, male, female, black, white, freckled, or whatever is, and we need to make that a standard statement instead of hate.