*holy fuck I found my loggin and password, completely by mistake!* o_o
candy-queeen-deactivated2013012 asked: hi i just wanted to let you know something about my post that you reblogged. when i said leave it to the dancers... i meant for pointe. because if you don't know how to dance, or have not been dancing long enough, and you go up on pointe you will seriously injure yourself. dancing takes a lot of hard work and years just to get up on pointe and in the pictures i was referring to were not dancers and yet they were in pointe shoes looking as though they were about to break their ankle. sorry!
Ah! Okay, then yes, that does make sense! I guess I misread that. I’ve been seeing a decent amount of people treat dance like it’s some exclusive club, which is rather bothersome. Dancing comes from the soul, and is something everyone should be able to enjoy without shame. However, you’re right, it’s also a lot of hard work to be able to do certain things at all let alone safely, and people certainly shouldn’t skip ahead as it can be rather dangerous. Thanks for clearing that up, sorry for the misunderstanding. :)
(via balletphotos)
i don’t know why, but it gets me every time.lol i am dying.lol <#
All I have to say to people who think dancing is an exclusive club.
If you don’t know how to dance…
leave it to the dancers :)
Why do they have to be an expert to dance? Everyone starts out somewhere, even the best dancers had to learn, they didn’t just become amazing over night. Saying something like “leave it to the dancers” is rather degrading to the hundreds of people who love and are fiercely passionate about dance, but are only just learning. For all you know those people who are just learning might very well grow (through hard work and a lot of practice) to become something really great, they’re just not there yet. And that’s not something to shame them about.
(via candy-queeen-deactivated2013012)
All I want to do is dance.
(Source: historyisntbunk)
Life of Adella: Dr. ScarecrowCrane starter -
Adella would laugh bitterly the moment he mentioned something wanting to keep her alive.“It’s just like people. Some are helpful, some are not. Yes, I’ve been very lucky to live as long as I have. I should by all rights be dead by now. I know that. I know I won’t live past twenty-five, if even that. Doesn’t stop me from doing the best with what I have.” How would she deal with stress? Does she rely too much on the help she receives? Perhaps she did. But then, she needed every last bit of help she could get. There was something unnerving to the mention of violence. He said it was for arguments sake, but something whispered in her mind. “He’s done it before.”
“I would prefer to avoid stress, thank you.” the nervous antics were starting to come back, eye contact was impossible and she found herself fiddling with her dress again.
“I d-don’t handle it well, it’s true. But you’re wrong. Everything has a price, I’ve paid a lot for even the smallest of help.” she had completely forgotten she wasn’t going to admit still believing in the monsters truly.
“The monster only ate the boys because they’re bigger than me, they made a better meal. If they hadn’t been around it would have tried to gobble me up instead. That’s a risk I have to take every time-“ she cut herself off, she was getting too worked up. She took a breath, but it did little to calm her down.
“You don’t know anything. You don’t know what’s been taken from me, you don’t know what I’ve given to keep what I have.” why was she so angry about this? Anger wasn’t exactly a default emotion for her. Yet there it was, like a hand had reached into her chest and squeezed. She clenched her mouth shut, nails digging into the palms of her closed hands without her noticing.
“Blood isn’t all I’ve paid, and they take a lot more than they give.” Anger was a weakness, and it was getting the better of her.
“But you wouldn’t know anything about that,” the lights would flicker again, when they were back it would seem the blacks of her eyes were twice the size they had been before, ”would you Johnathan?” It was almost as if someone else was speaking in that moment, someone who unlike Adella looked him right in the eyes. Defiant.
“How many of us are there, Johnny boy? How many of us crows?” her voice was a rasp, as if it were difficult for her to talk at all, the threat of a cough with every word.
“How many of us? How-“ this time she was cut off by a cough, by a wheeze, grasping her throat and doubling over to gasp for breath as the lights shut down. They remained off for a few seconds, then flickered back on lazily. Adella was still in the chair, head down. Her voice came small, but was all hers again.
“This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come back here. It was stupid. Sometimes you have to keep running. And they really, really, don’t like you.” This time it was deliberate. This time it was meant for him to hear.
“Salt. You’re going to need a lot of salt.” That alone wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start.
Crane swept his notes aside and lent forward on his desk, making sure he was looking right into the cold black eyes that were attempting to communicate with him. He felt a pang of disappointment when normal Adella returned to him, but he liked the look of what he was dealing with. And he wanted it back.
He calmly walked to the side of the room and switched on a generator. It was connected to a number of small lights around the room, which whilst not powerful, kept the room reasonably lit in times of blackout. He had installed them for those instances where, due to boredom, he had ensured an electrical failure within the building to send the inmates into a panic. Now, they were to snatch a level of control away from whatever was in Adella’s head. If they wished to remain within his office, they were not to control what he could and could not see.
“Salt, ey? I’ll make a note of that.” He sat on the edge of the desk in front of Adella, so they were face to face. Gently, he took her hands in his and began to inspect them. Sure enough, her palms were bleeding from the indents left by her nails. “Dear me. That’ll need some treatment in order to avoid infection.” He took out a bottle of antiseptic fluid and began to dab it on her hands. He couldn’t care less about infection, but he wanted the voices to realise he wasn’t afraid to approach, or even touch, Adella.
“I wonder something, Ms Danahar. I wonder whether you know exactly what you just said to me. Whether you realise that you called yourself a crow, referred to me as ‘Johnny boy’, and made some not-so-subtle threats against me. I have reason to suspect that there is something in your head you are not in control of. Maybe more than one thing. I believe you to be aware of this, but I need to know whether you remain conscious during the experience.”
Crane suddenly lunged forward and allowed the bottle to shatter on the floor. His hands flew up to the side of Adella’s head and grasped firmly. “There’s someone in there who wants to speak to me. And I want to speak to them too.” He began to shaker her head firmly, partly to anger the voices, but partly because his excitement was getting the better of him. “And maybe, if they’re not cowards, they’ll come out to play again. Go on, voices, turn out the lights all you want but if you really think you have me afraid than you are very much mistaken. I don’t feel fear. I am fear!”
Adella was about to rise to leave when he took her hands, which made her instinctively flinch. He wasn’t scared? He explained, which made her shrink back a bit. She had known they didn’t like him, there was something lingering around him, something very upset with him. She could feel that, but she should have been more careful not to let it speak through her.
“Oh, t-that. Sometimes I do things, but I don’t remember.” It was what she said besides “The spirits speak through me”, it was easier for people to swallow, generally. Why wasn’t he afraid? That was such a rare thing. She opened her mouth to speak again, when he had her head in his hands, making her yelp.
“N-No, stop! It doesn’t work like that!” she tried prying his hands away from her, but even against scrawny Crane she had no strength. Her struggling did no good.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, what you’re asking. Everything has a price! It doesn’t work like that, I don’t control it, you’re gonna make worse things happen, stop-“ She could feel it bubbling up again. Rising in her chest, the burning pain. He wasn’t listening to her, it was his own fault, it was too late. It all happened so fast. Her eyes were pure black again, but instead of speaking this time her head turned with a growl to sink teeth into his hand. A glance of a thick black something dripping from her mouth, and then the world would turn black for him.
Voices, muffled and difficult to make out. The darkness would begin to recede, but he was not in his office. Before he could fully wake up he would feel a prick, glancing down to see the blurry image of a large balding man with needle in hand. No, that was wrong. The man wasn’t large. He was small. His body was tiny and sore all over. He couldn’t move when he tried. His body was too heavy. So heavy. He couldn’t speak. No matter how many times he might try. His eyes could only follow as the man moved to let another through the door. They took their time, he still couldn’t make out what they said. Trying to get a sense of the location, it was just a room. Vision clearing only to blur again. Wall paper with flowers, a matching lamp on the dresser next to the bed. Which was where he was. The men were making their way back over, the first moving to the foot of the bed. It took a moment to make out, the camera on the tri-pod. The tiny red light turning on, and he could just make out the words.
“Camera rolling…”
He would wake with a gasp of breath, back as himself, back on the floor of his office. A persistent wave of nausea came with waking up, though it didn’t seem he would really be sick. Though he would feel sick. There wasn’t a better way to describe it. He could move again, he could speak, everything was as it should be. Minus the sickness in the pit of his stomach.
A steady thumping would reveal Adella over against the wall, seeming stuck in the repetitive motion of thumping her head against the wall. It was almost rhythmic. A feverish sweat covered her brow, a shiver running through her body. The only evidence of what had happened was the dried inky black stain running down her chin and onto her dress.
Life of Adella: Dr. ScarecrowCrane starter -
Adella was a bit surprised when he jumped up to grab a file. Oh. He knew all about that. That made things much easier. She did rather hate having to re-explain everything every time she switched doctors. The less she had to re-explain the better. She would fidget a bit at the “interesting last few years” comment. Interesting life was more like it, though interesting wasn’t the word she would use. The horrors had begun when she was eight, and hadn’t truly stopped in the last eleven years. At least he seemed understanding about her smarts and growing. That was a start.“The night of the monsters. The last one, I assume you mean.” there had been many nights, but he was most certainly talking about the latest.
“Short or long version? I’ll try to keep it short. I had just gotten to Gotham, though I didn’t know it yet. I had been looking for a church, they’re safe and helpful. Instead I found the guys. I could tell right away they weren’t good, they were on all sides after all. I backed against the wall and tried to tell them I didn’t have any money, which I didn’t, but they didn’t care. I don’t remember what all they said, but I remember the knife, and I remember bleeding, and then I saw the first one lose his face. While they were screaming and attacking what they couldn’t see, I crawled to hide behind the big trash thing. And then I remember nothing, and then I was in the hospital.” the short version. She described it like any other day, she may as well have been talking about getting up every day to go to school or to work. All the documents said it was a trauma, and she repeated the words, but there was nothing but indifference behind them. She was more tired of the event than hurt by it.
“I don’t care about people like that. It’s the nice people I worry about. I don’t want bad things to happen to the nice people.” She thought about advising him to carry salt with him then, but didn’t care enough just yet. Plus he would only laugh at her suggestion anyway. There were ways she could prove she wasn’t making it all up, but that wasn’t what she was there for. She was there to get help, not argue what’s real and what isn’t.
She would glance at the file then.
“Which deaths does the file know about?” There had been many. Not all deaths, some people had gone mad. But she knew those wouldn’t be on her file.
“I thi-“ she cut her sentence short when the lights in the office began to flicker. It was only for a moment, and they were back to normal, but it was enough to make her alert. It was enough to make her check the room again.
“They really don’t like you.” she muttered the sentence as if to herself, scanning the room and seeing nothing, so she seemed to relax a bit.
“Anything else you wanted to ask about?”
Crane listened intently to her story. He had long wondered which of Gotham’s night creatures had aided her that evening. It certainly wasn’t Batman’s style. And though many of his former patients had shown the occasional moment of weakness where they might show mercy to a child, he couldn’t place a finger on which of them might have been present on that night. Perhaps it was a new foe.
The flickering lights caught his attention briefly, but it was something he easily dismissed. “Don’t be bothered by that. One of the doctors here is fond of electro-shock therapy. The flickering lights just means she’s dealing with a particularly difficult patient.” Though he was able to dismiss the lighting problem, he couldn’t so easily dismiss her follow up comment. Who exactly was she talking about when she said they didn’t like him? They were possibly just the words of a deluded young woman, but she had seemed reasonably sane while she told the story.
Crane began sorting through the other articles in which her name had been mentioned. There were also snippets from medical records of her previous Arkham treatments. Nothing substantial, but enough to go on. “Trouble seems to follow you around, Ms Danahar. Almost as if someone wants you dead. But then, you always make it through. As if someone wants you alive.”
He pushed the articles aside and straightened his glasses, making sure they were making clear eye-contact. He wanted to hold her gaze, and needed her full concentration. “Ms Danahar, how do you think you would cope under stress? In a dangerous situation? You’ve had a life of close calls. But a life where someone, or something, has always come to your aid. Maybe you’re too reliant on this force. Too reliant that you needn’t act, and you will always survive.”
“For arguments sake, lets say I were to jump over this desk, wrap my fingers around your throat, and begin to strangle you. How would you respond? Would you be able to stop me? Would you be agile enough to avoid my grasp? Or would you submit to me, and hope that some sort of monster came to save the day again?”
Adella would laugh bitterly the moment he mentioned something wanting to keep her alive.
“It’s just like people. Some are helpful, some are not. Yes, I’ve been very lucky to live as long as I have. I should by all rights be dead by now. I know that. I know I won’t live past twenty-five, if even that. Doesn’t stop me from doing the best with what I have.” How would she deal with stress? Does she rely too much on the help she receives? Perhaps she did. But then, she needed every last bit of help she could get. There was something unnerving to the mention of violence. He said it was for arguments sake, but something whispered in her mind. “He’s done it before.”
“I would prefer to avoid stress, thank you.” the nervous antics were starting to come back, eye contact was impossible and she found herself fiddling with her dress again.
“I d-don’t handle it well, it’s true. But you’re wrong. Everything has a price, I’ve paid a lot for even the smallest of help.” she had completely forgotten she wasn’t going to admit still believing in the monsters truly.
“The monster only ate the boys because they’re bigger than me, they made a better meal. If they hadn’t been around it would have tried to gobble me up instead. That’s a risk I have to take every time-“ she cut herself off, she was getting too worked up. She took a breath, but it did little to calm her down.
“You don’t know anything. You don’t know what’s been taken from me, you don’t know what I’ve given to keep what I have.” why was she so angry about this? Anger wasn’t exactly a default emotion for her. Yet there it was, like a hand had reached into her chest and squeezed. She clenched her mouth shut, nails digging into the palms of her closed hands without her noticing.
“Blood isn’t all I’ve paid, and they take a lot more than they give.” Anger was a weakness, and it was getting the better of her.
“But you wouldn’t know anything about that,” the lights would flicker again, when they were back it would seem the blacks of her eyes were twice the size they had been before, ”would you Johnathan?” It was almost as if someone else was speaking in that moment, someone who unlike Adella looked him right in the eyes. Defiant.
“How many of us are there, Johnny boy? How many of us crows?” her voice was a rasp, as if it were difficult for her to talk at all, the threat of a cough with every word.
“How many of us? How-“ this time she was cut off by a cough, by a wheeze, grasping her throat and doubling over to gasp for breath as the lights shut down. They remained off for a few seconds, then flickered back on lazily. Adella was still in the chair, head down. Her voice came small, but was all hers again.
“This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come back here. It was stupid. Sometimes you have to keep running. And they really, really, don’t like you.” This time it was deliberate. This time it was meant for him to hear.
“Salt. You’re going to need a lot of salt.” That alone wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start.
If you know someone talking about suicide, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T TELL EVERYONE ON THE INTERNET TO GO TRY TO HELP THEM. I know your heart is in the right place, but this is a bad idea for so many reasons.
If someone is talking about killing themselves, if someone is planning to kill themselves, they need help from someone who is TRAINED to handle those kinds of situations. Someone who knows what they are doing and how to make the situation better, not worse. I know this is the internet, and everyone thinks they know everything about everything, but no. I know you intentions are good, but intention and outcome are two very different things. I’ll be the first to say: I’m not qualified to handle a situation like someone wanting to commit suicide. My attempts to help them would probably backfire terribly. But the people I alert who are actually trained to handle it will know what to do.