look at this
I don’t even know where to begin.
Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickasslavenderpatilbecause everyone should read it
i’ve stopped trash talking comic sans after learning the font is actually one of the only dyslexia-friendly fonts that come standard with most computers and i advocate for others doing the same
In the event that you would like to continue hating Comic Sans, other dyslexia-friendly alternatives include Arial, Verdana, Tahoma, Century Gothic and Trebuchet.
Tumblr is a cult.
They drag in young, insecure people that don’t know what to make of themselves, and they validate all their retarded ideas and tell them that they should distance themselves from everyone that isn’t part of the cult.
e.g. “You’re 13 and not all that interested in girls? You must be ASEXUAL just like us!”
But like in all cults, once you’re inside you better watch your fucking step. Conduct is strictly policed, and any attempts to question the group-think are swiftly and severely punished.
Hugboxing is the mechanism that Tumblr communities use to draw their victims into the cult, but it only extends so far, and if you transgress then they’ll cut you off hard."
you know whatd be a fun exercise
get a writer and an artist together. artist does a sketch, writer writes a handful of paragraphs. they give them to each other.
writer has to write a handful of paragraphs on the scene depicted in the sketch, and it cant be just like, describing it. artist has to draw a new sketch from the writing.
it’d be a neat lil’ flex-the-muscles sort of thing.
What the heck, I LOVE this. I’d do this in a heartbeat! Does this interest people? (Artists, specifically. I can’t draw/paint/anything.)
|Dr. Light:||I thought we were friends.|
|Dr. Wily:||That got boring.|
latenightliar said: If you don't mind me asking, what ARE the right codewords to use on doctors and such?
Or, as my otherwise sane GP put it, she has an honest fear that people like us will take one look at our new mobility devices and throw all caution — and sense — to the winds. That we’ll stop stretching and exercising. That those of us who *can* walk for short distances will — somehow! — decide to *never walk again*. That we’ll decide to — gleefully! cheerfully! blithely! — let every last one of the muscles we’ve been clinging to with our *fingernails* *atrophy* to *nothing*, because…They really do think we’re asking for these devices for… no reason at all.Yes, I know this makes even less sense than the former, but I’ve interrogated these people — the ones who have still have partially-functional souls and minds — and this really is how it works in their adorable little pinheads.“I am a fat, lazy, Fatty McFatFat, and I will continue to expand, much like the universe, until I am a drain on the resources of this great nation and a proof that you, doctor, are a failure. I will never use the mobility devices, ever, and they will gather dust in my home — a mockery of everything you, Morally Healthy Person, holds dear.”While some healthcare professionals speak human languages and have souls… well.Never actually say “I need a walker/wheelchair/scooter, because I have trouble getting around, and also I have a great deal of fatigue and pain when I try to do so.”2) Acquiring mobility devices.Pro-tip: If you can add a true (or true-sounding) story about how much you *hate* one *particular* opiate (“Percocet is useless! All it does is make me stupid!”), then you’re probably in the bag.With the above code, 95% of the time the doctors begin *cooing* at me and treating me like *royalty* — and *100%* of the time I have gotten the effective medication.c) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ weak-willed disabled people.a) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ junkies.Make sure to translate this into the appropriate dialect for your area, but note the important points:“Well, I hate these drugs that make me *stupid*, you know? One of these so-called doctors — they gave me some pill that made me feel like I was on a whole separate planet for *years*, but I was still in pain! I have things to *do*, doctor. I have a job/family/projects. I wouldn’t be here if I could get my work done the way I am now, but if I can’t do them with the drugs you give me, then what’s the point?”Try this:You think I’m kidding? Watch a healthcare professional’s eyes when someone else says something like the following. Watch them shut down and back away and tighten up and generally stop treating the person like a human.“I am a ravening junkie werekaiju, and I will come to your house and EAT YOUR BABIES IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME HEROIN.”While there are some doctors who speak human languages and will understand what you’re saying, most, when you say that, will hear:Never actually say “I really need strong drugs here doctor, because the drugs you and every other doctor gave me for this injury/illness didn’t work, and also I’ve been in pain for years and I’d like that to stop.”1) On acquiring adequate pain medication.I’ve thought, many times, about writing a book or something that was basically How To Negotiate Your Disability Without Curling Into A Ball And Weeping More Than Once Or Twice A Week *Or* Murdering The Entire Universe (More Than Once Or Twice A Week).Here are some highlights:
So what do you say?
b) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ non-productive members of society.Remember not to use too *much* *correct* medical jargon — they get suspicious about that.Yes, all of this is necessary a *lot* of the time.
A lot of them? Will hear this:Because they think we’re idiots, that’s why.
So, try this instead:"I have a lot of pain and fatigue when I try to walk for any kind of distance, at all, and that’s getting in the way of my ability to have anything resembling an active life. It’s even hard to get to my doctor’s appointments sometimes! I want to do at least some of my own shopping and other errands, and go out with my friends, and at least try to hold down a job, but unless the weather is really good and I’m having a good day in other ways, it’s just not going to happen. I don’t want to stop using my cane/walker/whatever completely — and I *won’t* unless I *have* to, just like I won’t stop doing my PT and OT exercises — but I need something that will let me actually have a life."
Note the similarities to the pain management code — and yes, do make sure you put this in your own words.But also make sure you keep everything that makes you sound like the Virtuous Handicapable Person you totally are.Because that’s necessary.
Yes, it is.
Yes. It. Is.
Just as it will be necessary, in many states — make sure you check — to add in this little number:"It’s just… well, you know that I don’t really have any bladder or GI issues, doctor, but I still… sometimes… on bad mobility days… you know."Here’s where you look down."Sometimes I don’t make it… you know. In time."Understand that you’ll have to repeat this to, like, four different people. At least.
Understand that some of them will make you get specific.If it helps, pretend you’re Steph Brown, doing her level best to gross the everloving bejeezus out of her P.E. teacher with graphic stories about her period so she can get out of class and fight crime.*I* certainly found that helpful.
YOU GUYS YOU GUYS YOU GUYS!
My wheelchair has arriiiiiiiiiiiiiived!
I’ve spent the past few hours bumping into everything ever and also running *over* everything ever and I’m so in love I can’t even deal, because!
I’ll be able to go shopping for necessities even when my legs don’t work enough for the walker or the cane! I I’ll be able to go shopping even when my legs don’t work at all! I’ll be able to go all *kinds* of places even when my legs don’t work!
To doctors’ appointments! Physical therapy! Restaurants! Museums! Farmers’ Markets! Orchards! FARMS! Concerts! Movies! LIBRARIES MOTHERFUCKER!
I won’t HAVE to put all the responsibility on Jack, whose legs barely work any fucking better than mine! Do you understand this? CAN you understand this?
Fuck, I’m tearing up so hard here, and — yeah. This is why I’m reblogging the above. I *know* there are people out there in the U.S. who need this help. People who, like me, have Medicaid insurance — insurance which often feels *damned* theoretical — but still haven’t been able to get the pain management or mobility devices they require.
For those of you in Southern New England, I went through:
Access Rehab Centers — fine PTs, OTs, and speech therapists who will do their *damnedest* to come through for you both in terms of giving you the therapy you need and in filling out the REAMS of PAPERWORK you need. They, in turn, worked with:
Hudson Seating & Mobility — These people are absolute motherfucking HEROES. They come to your home; they measure you gently and professionally; they treat you like human beings; they explain everything about the various mobility devices to you and then ask you *more* questions to winnow down which one(s) would be the *best* fit for you; they *bring* you devices to test-drive; they give suggestions about how to arrange your home for your health, comfort, and safety; they tell you how to get what you need and what you need to say and who the best PTs to talk with are; they go with you to the PT to do more fine-tuning and help fill out the paperwork; they man the barricades when Medicaid tries again (and again, and AGAIN) to screw you —
And then they deliver your baby to your door just as fast as they can.
And, you know? These people all go to conventions and industry meet-ups. They talk to each other. Contact them. See if they can connect you to people in YOUR area.
THEY ARE THE LITERAL BEST.
I? Have been trying to get even a *manual* chair that I’d only be able to use when I had a physically powerful aide to push me around in it since *2005*. My (new as of last December) GP sent me to Access who sent me to Hudson earlier this year and —
PLEASE. PLEASE. TRY TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN FOR YOURSELVES.
YOU ALL DESERVE TO BE EXACTLY AS HAPPY AS I AM RIGHT NOW!
My chair, by the way?
Has green accents.
He’s named Jaybird.
Because he’s JUST THAT MOTHERFUCKING SUPPORTIVE AND INVESTED IN MY COMFORT AND SAFETY AND HAPPINESS AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT HE WILL RUN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS OVER UNTIL YOU’RE MOTHERFUCKING CRANBERRY SAUCE.
Reblogging because these kinds of scripts are exactly what I have to use in order to get the drugs I take for anxiety. I HATE doctors. I cannot over-state how much.
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS